LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


THE  MASTER-MISTRESS 

POEMS    BY     ROSE    O'NEILL 

Witk  drawings  by  tKe  author 


The  master-mistress  of  my  passion. 

— Shakespeare 


NewYork/ALFREB'A'KNOPF/i9aa 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUPOB3OA 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 

ROSE  O'NEILL 

Published  October,  19M 


Set  up  and  printed  lu  the  Vail-Ballou  Co.,  Binghamton,  X.  Y. 

Paper  furnished  6j/  W.  f.  Ether  inpton  A  Co.,  New  York,  N.  Y. 

Bound  bv  the  Plimpton  Press,  Norwood,  Mass. 


MANUFACTURED     IN     THE     UNITED     STATES     OF     AMERICA 


TO  THE  FOUR  WINDS 


Thanks  are  given  to  Messrs.  Lothrop,  Lee  & 
Shepard,  and  to  the  Messrs.  Harper  for  permis 
sion  to  re-print  some  earlier  poems  from  my 
novels,  The  Loves  of  Edwy  and  The  Lady  in  the 
White  Veil. 


CONTENTS 


THE   MASTER-MISTRESS  I 

I    BRING    THIS    WEIGHT  2 

THE    SONNET    BEGS   MB  3 

IRISH     SONG  4 

HUNTERS    OF    HEAVEN  5 

THE   SON.      He  Complains  of  Dying  Too  Soon  7 

THE    SEVEN    FAREWELLS  9 

THE  WIND  ALONG  THE  LEAVES  1 1 

ZANZOS  13 

THE   DOOM-BRIDE  1 5 

MY  DARKNESS  17 

THE   FLYING   DEAD  1 8 

THE    HIGH    HOUSE  19 

ESTABLISHED  21 

A   DREAM    OF    SAPPHO  22 

THE    MUSE   IN    THE    DOOR  25 

POET  TO  POET.      To  My  Singing  Brother  27 

SALE  29 

THE    MASTER    OF    POETS  31 

THERE    WHERE    THE    NIGHT   WAS   TALL  35 

I   DREAMED   YOU    WEPT  36 

FORGOTTEN    PATRICK  38 

TEARS  39 

THE    FAIRY    HUSBAND  40 

THE  OWL  43 

OWL   SINISTER  45 

THE    SILENT    HOUND  46 

SHE  WROTE  IT.       To  Kallista  48 

WHERE  THERE  IS   NO   LARK  5O 

AS    I    WENT    BY  51 


CONTENTS 

THE    EAGLE    HUNTER  52 

TWO  PORTRAITS  54 

THE    FOUR   GOATS  55 

THE   TWO    BONNIE   LORDS  56 

THE   BEGINNING   AND   THE    FULL   OF   LOVE  58 

THE   GOING  59 

THE   LOVELY   GOER  60 

THE   CRYING   HEARTS  6 1 

DEATH   SHALL   NOT  EASE  ME  OF  YOU.      To  Kallista  63 

THE   DELIGHT  65 

FAUN-TAKEN  67 

MEA  CULPA  69 

THEY  SPREAD  THE  PLANETS  OUT  FOR  ME.      Composed  in 

Sleep  to  Kallista  70 

THE  TRAPPER   OF   STARS  71 

THE    THREE   DEAD  TONGUES  72 

THE   SAVANT  73 

"l    LEAVE   YOU    NOW   WITH    YOUR  DELICIOUS   EYES"                     74 

BLACK    POET   TO    SILVER    POET  76 

WHOM    SINGEST    THOU?  77 

SPLENDOUR  78 

SOME  DISHONOURED  GARDEN  79 

AGAMEMNON  80 

HIS   STRANGENESS  8 1 

HIS   BURDEN  82 

HIS   TREACHERY  84 

HIS    TREACHERY,    TO    ANOTHER    TUNE  85 

HIS    BEAUTY  86 

HIS   LITTLENESS  87 

THE  MAKER'S  STEALTH  88 

THE  FLIGHT  89 

YOU  SAW  ME  LOVE  HIM  90 

SO,  YOU  WOULD  NOT  FORGIVE  ME  91 

SICK   WITH    HEAVEN  92 


CONTENTS 

NORWAY 

I.  THE    MAGICAL   HEARTS  93 
II.      THREE  95 

III.  SEA-COMER  97 

IV.  THE  FAIRY  CHILD.        To  Matt  a  99 
V.       MATTA  JOURNEYING  AMONG  FJORDS  IO2 

VI.      THE    STAG  IO3 

VII.      THE   EARTH  IO4 

FOUR  POEMS  TO  KALLISTA 

i.     SILK  106 

II.  LIFT  UP  YOUR  HANDS  IO7 

III.  THE    BANQUET  IO8 

IV.  I   WOULD  NOT   HAVE   YOU    SEE    ME  IC>9 

AND  NOW  IT  SEEMED  TO  ME  IIO 

THE  THIEF  III 

INDIAN  SONG  1 13 

LEE:        A   Portrait  114 

MANUEL'S  BEDS  116 

RICHARD'S  HOUSE  117 

THE  TWO  DESPAIRS  119 

THE  DESERT-DWELLER  SAID.     I,  II  I2O 

CONSCIOUSNESS  122 
WHY  HAVE  YOU  TURNED  AWAY  FROM  ME,  MY  PRIDE?       123 

NOW,  MY  LYRE  124 

IS   IT   MY   LAUGHTER?  125 

HIS  DISTANCE  126 

THE   RECOVERY  127 

LIPS  AND   EYES  128 

TO  A  GREAT  PRAISING  POET  129 

RETURN.      I,   II  I3O 

WAR 

I.      WAR  132 

II.  I    LEFT   MY   PIPES  134 

III.  THE  DEAD  MEN   FALL  136 


CONTENTS 

IV.      ANOTHER    SPRING  137 

V.      TO    MATTHEW    ARNOLD.       1917  139 

VI.      TO  A   POET,  RETURNING   FROM  CHINA  TO  THE  WAR    140 

VII.      WAR-WIFE  142 

VIII.      THE   ROADS  144 

IX.      WHEN   THE  DEAD   MEN   DIE  146 

SOFT  SONG.   After  the  War  148 

THE  SULLEN  SON  149 

THE  WAKING  HOUSE  I5O 

THE  POET'S  TWO  QUEENS  153 

AS  YOU  WENT  154 

NIGHT  SONG  155 

THE  RUNNERS  156 

THEY  SAID,  GO  AND  ASSUAGE  HIM  OR  HE  DIES  157 

PIGEONS  158 

FIERCELY    KIND    AND    BLACKLY    BRIGHT  159 

THE   BETRAYED.    Poor  Cradle-Song  l6o 

THE   DAY   THE   DOOM    WAS    FIXED  1 62 

YOU   THOUGHT  I   LOVED  YOU  164 

FOOL   SONGS.      I,   II  165 

TO   A    POET  COMING  TO   PARIS  167 

THE   TOO  WITTY   HUSBAND  171 

SECOND    FIDDLE  1 72 

THE    EVENT  173 

LINES   COMPOSED  IN   SLEEP  174 

INVADER  175 

THERE  WAS  A  FOOL  176 

THE  WOMAN  OF  PROPERTY.     Irish  Song  1 77 

SING  A  SONG  OF  SAGES  178 

CAPTURE  1 79 

TWENTY-SIX  EARLY  POEMS 

I.      AND    FEW   THERE    ARE  l8o 

II.      I   SIT  A   BEGGAR  IN  THE   PORCH    OF   LOVE  l8l 

III.       SHALL  I  CALL  YOU  AND  CARRY  YOU,   NOW?  1 82 


CONTENTS 

IV.      HE  IS  SO  LITTLE  AND  SO  WAN  183 

V.      IF  THOU   REMEMBEREST   ME  184 

VI.      WHERE   ARE  YOU    MY   DEAR?  185 

VII.      YOU    WHO  CAN,    COME    CHARM    ME  1 86 

VIII.       BUT  IF    YOU    COME    TO    ME    BY   DAY  187 

IX.      DO   NOT  WEEP   NOW  1 88 

X.      YOU  WHO  PIPE  SO  LOUD  189 

XI.       SHUT  IN   THE  JUNG-FRAU  IQO 

XII.      UNHASP  YOUR  DOOR  IQI 

XIII.  I   MADE  A   LITTLE   EATER  1 92 

XIV.  WHO  BEFRIEND  ME  193 
XV.      THE   SISTER.       Kallista  194 

XVI.      TO  A   LIONESS  195 

XVII.      THE  TWO  SORROWS  196 

XVIII.      YOU    ARE    SO    KIND   NOW   YOU    ARE   DEAD  197 
XIX.      YOU  WHO  HAVE  TAKEN  EVERYTHING  AWAY  FROM 

ME  199 

XX.      HERE  I  CAN  STOP  AT  LAST  2OO 

XXI.      THE   MAKER  2OI 

XXII.      BLOW  AND  BEAT  UPON  MY  HUT  2O2 

XXIII.      JAMIE.     The  Ballad  of  a  Dead  Boy  2O3 

XXIV.      THE  BED.     Jamie  2O8 

XXV.      BLIND    EYES.       Jamie  2IO 

XXVI.      JAMIE  211 

LOVE-ENDING  212 

TO  THE  TERRIBLE   MUSE  2l6 
A  SKELETON  ADDRESSES  SOME  CHILDREN  OF  A  LATER  TIME 

WHO   PLAY  WITH   IT  217 

THE   RETURNED  22O 

THEN,  EVEN  THEN  222 

THE   GIFT  223 

FIERCE   SPLENDOUR  224 

THE  GREAT  CLOWN  225 

THE  CANDLE  227 


DRAWINGS 

THE   MASTER-MISTRESS  frontispiece 

THE   FAUN   INSTRUCTS  THE  POET   UPON   THE   PIPES.                 40 

THE  POETESS.  77 

THE    LIPS   OF    EARTH.  HO 

CONSCIOUSNESS.  122 

THE   SULLEN    SON.  149 

THE  SLAIN   BUFFOON.  1 62 

THE  ETERNAL  GESTURE.  l8o 

LOVE-ENDING  212 


I 

THE  MASTER-MISTRESS 


THE  MASTER-MISTRESS 

All  in  the  drowse  of  life  I  saw  a  shape, 

A  lovely  monster  reared  up  from  the  restless  rock, 

More  secret  and  more  loud  than  other  beasts. 

It,  seeming  two  in  one, 

With  dreadful  beauty  doomed, 

Folded  itself,  in  chanting  like  a  flood. 

I  said,  "Your  name,  O  Master-mistress?" 

But  it,  answering  not, 

Folded  itself,  in  chanting  like  a  flood. 


I  BRING  THIS  WEIGHT 

I  bring  this  weight  of  savage  singing  here, 

Fitting  for  you  who  feast  upon  fierce  things, 
Like  to  one  running  from  a  wood  in  fear 
And  triumph  terrible,  who  strongly  brings 

A  bright  beast  held  beneath  his  rended  dress, 

Hilarious  distress 
Of  Spartan  folly  fainting  with  its  prize, 

Of  tearing  trophy,  burning  boon  and  glee! 
But,  oh,  arise, 

And  get  me  from  my  f anged  captive  free ! 
Oh,  come,  oh  quickly  lift  the  cloak,  and  see 

Him  gleaming,  ere  too  deep  he  diggeth  me! 


[2] 


THE  SONNET  BEGS  ME 

•t 

The  Sonnet  begs  me  like  a  bridegroom, 
"Come  within." 

"This  palace!    Not  for  me,  the  desert-born!" 
I  turn  me,  as  from  some  too  lordly  sin, 

And  like  a  singing  Hagar,  pause  and  pass — 
To  lift  for  night's  sweet  thieves  my  houseless  horn 

In  broken  rhythms  of  the  windy  grass. 
I  will  not  be  the  measure-pacing  bride, 

But  where  the  flutes  come  faintly, 

Sing  outside. 

Like  drifting  sand  my  love  doth  drift  and  change — 
I  strangely  sing  because  my  love  is  strange. 


[3] 


IRISH  SONG 

And  over  the  lone  wet  places, 

With  your  heart  half  sick  in  the  stumbling  dark, 
And  your  breath  going  wild  with  the  hurry, 

I  hear  you  coming  to  me  again! 

I  hear  you  coming  and  calling, 

Knowing  me  not  for  the  Lonely,  the  Lost  One, 
The  Gone,  Gone,  Gone,  for  all  of  your  panting; 

Your  gold  eyes  finding  me  never  again. 


[4] 


HUNTERS  OF  HEAVEN 

Hunters  of  Heaven, 

Halloo! 

Over  the  moon ! 

On  the  track  of  the  hurrying  Heaven 
With  hounds!     The  horn  and  the  tune 
Of  the  hunters  pursue 
The  silvery  panting, 
The  radiant  runner  that  flew, 
That  sped  like  a  spear, 
That  battled  with  eagles  for  height, 
And  trampled  the  stars  that  would  stay  him 
With  heavenly  fierceness  and  fight! 

Hunters  of  Heaven, 

Halloo! 

We  are  hot  on  his  crystal  heels, 
His  flanks  are  dripping  with  dew, 
His  bright  knees  falter  and  stay, 
He  sighs  as  he  goes! 
He  faints  with  the  horror  of  horns! 
Oh  my  prize!     Oh,  imperial  prey! 
Oh,  crested!     Oh  rose! 
But  no!     He  is  fled,  he  is  gone, 


With  heavenly  laughter  and  cries  1 
He  strikes  off  the  hands  of  the  worlds, 
He  leaps  on  the  walls  of  the  skies ! 
Far  from  his  hunters  that  weep, 
Safe  from  his  lovers — his  foes, 
Into  the  uttermost  deep, 
Gleaming,  he  goes! 

Hunters  of  Heaven,  go  down! 

He  dies  not,  'tis  we  that  shall  die! 

Each  to  his  town 

And  be  comforted ; 

Each  to  his  gray,  gray  town 

And  his  bed; 

But  not  I! 

Not  I,  who  faint  and  fall, 

Returning  no  more  at  all. 

On  the  leaves  of  the  moon  the  stain 

Of  the  broken  vein, — 

It  is  red! 
Never  again, 

The  hounds  and  the  hunters'  tune ; 
It  is  red  on  the  paths  of  the  moon! 


[6] 


THE  SON 

(He  Complains  of  Dying  too  Soon.) 

Oh,  mother,  it  is  hard  to  die 
When  a  man  is  twenty-one, 
A  good  team  hoofing  in  the  stalls, 

And  half  the  ploughing  done; 
And  meadow  acres  of  our  own, 
All  steaming  in  the  sun! 

Ah,  weary,  weary,  be  at  peace. 
Lie  still,  my  bonnie  son. 

Oh,  mother,  mother — hard  to  die — 

And  it  this  time  of  year! 
When  little  leaves  are  coming  out 

And  hopeful  buds  are  here.  .  .  . 
And  no  maid  ever  leaned  on  me, 
Nor  any  called  me,  "-Dear!" 
' Tis  Jesu  Christus  calling  thee: 
His  words  are  kind  and  clear. 

Oh,  in  the  village,  once,  a  maid.  .  .  . 

Her  corsage  was  untied.  .  .  . 
A  little  button  had  gone  wrong : 

I  saw  two  doves  inside! 
But  once  to  hold  them  in  my  hand — 

[7] 


Those  doves — before  I  died ! 

Think  on  the  Dove  of  God,  my  son. 
His  wings  are  soft  and  wide. 

And  once,  oh  mother,  in  the  grass, 

Beneath  the  apple  trees, 
There  was  a  careless  maid  asleep — 

I  saw  two  silken  knees : 
I  dreamed  my  waist  was  girdled  round 
With  silken  chanties. 

Oh,  little  son,  how  can  you  speak 
Such  wild,  wild  words  as  these! 

And,  mother,  I  have  rolled  in  bed 

Until  the  dawn  of  light, 
With  heart  a-bursting  in  my  side 
For  dreams  of  strange  delight — 
Of  something  lily  pale  and  soft 
That  kept  me  warm  at  night. 
Oh,  weary,  weary,  be  at  peace. 
The  angels'  wings  are  white. 

You  always  gave  me  good,  wool  hose, 

And  plenty  of  ale  and  bread, 
But  mother,  mother,  you  never  gave 

A  woman  in  my  bed ! 
And  so,  until  the  crack  of  doom, 
I'll  sleep  cold,  now  I'm  dead! 
Oh,  little  son,  would  I  had  died 
Ere  ever  these  words  you  said! 
(Oh,  Jesu  Christus,  crucified!) 
[8] 


THE  SEVEN  FAREWELLS 

The  birds  were  crying  in  the  ways, 

The  cuckoo  and  the  doves, 
When  I  took  seven  summer  days 

To  farewell  my  seven  loves. 

And  first,  I  took  a  long,  long  day 

To  gaze  and  say  goodbye, 
And  slowly  turn  my  soul  away 

From  the  wonder  of  the  Eye. 

Another  deep  day  was  used  up 

Upon  the  most  caressed; 
I  leaned  and  whispered  to  the  Cup — 

I  parted  with  the  Breast. 

And  next,  from  when  the  sun  did  rise, 

Until  the  evening  fell, 
I  looked,  and  never  turned  my  eyes, 

But  bade  the  Lip  farewell. 

The  Lip  that  spoke  as  singing  birds 

Lived  in  its  crimson  door — 
The  Lip,  the  honied  home  of  words, 

It  smiled  and  spoke  no  more. 

[9] 


Then,  till  a  long  day's  dripping  sands 
The  glass  had  all  run  through, 

I  held  the  Feet  in  my  two  hands 
And  bade  the  Feet  adieu. 

Then  I  entreated  of  my  heart 

If  counselling  there  be 
Of  that  strange  alabaster  art, 

How  to  farewell  the  Knee. 

That  white  impossible  was  done : 

But,  unaccomplished  now, 
Although  I  strove  from  sun  to  sun 

To  finish  with  thy  Thou. 

This  nameless  Thou  with  sealed  eye 

It  leaned  across  the  day, 
And  when  I  tried  to  say  goodbye 

It  turned  my  tongue  to  clay. 


[10] 


THE  WIND  ALONG  THE  LEAVES 

In  the  valley  restless, 
Where  the  birds  are  nestless, 
All  my  hearts  are  shaking 
Like  blown  water  quaking, 
For  the  wind  along  the  leaves  has  made  me  mad. 

Where  my  selves  are  walking 
They  wake  me  with  their  talking, 
Where  the  dark  is  riding 
There  is  something  hiding, 
And  the  wind  along  the  leaves  has  made  me  mad. 

The  river  never  tarries 
For  dread  of  what  she  carries; 
The  low  ones  who  go  creeping 
In  the  wood  are  weeping, 
And  the  wind  along  the  leaves  has  made  me  mad. 

There  are  too  many  faces 
In  the  darkling  places, 
Where  the  wet  roots  glisten 
Too  many  lean  and  listen, 
And  the  wind  along  the  leaves  has  made  me  mad. 


There  is  too  much  meaning 
Where  the  trees  are  leaning, 
And  the  rocks  conferring 
Make  a  fearful  stirring; 
The  wind  along  the  leaves  has  made  me  mad ! 


[12] 


/• 

ZANZOS 


Oh,  it's  down  the  world  to  Zanzos, 
Down  the  world  with  lovers  twain, 

But  it's  killed  with  other  kisses 
That  I  come  back  again. 

For  they  left  me  there  to  follow 

Foam-flowers  fair  and  sad, 
And  they  left  me  there  in  Zanzos, 

In  Zanzos  to  go  mad. 

For  affairs  are  strange  in  Zanzos, 
Such  a  state  of  things  prevails, 

That  you  cannot  tell  the  women 
From  the  nightingales. 

So  as  I  came  back  from  Zanzos 

With  the  gulls  that  wheeled  and  whirled, 
I  was  singing-sick  with  Zanzos, 
And  went  crying  up  the  world. 

The  people  wondered  much  to  see 
My  phosphorescent  shine, 

[13] 


And  said  they'd  never  met  before 
Such  an  antic  face  as  mine. 

They  said  that  they  had  never  met 

A  woman  quite  so  fair, 
Who  made  such  lisping  with  her  lips, 
As  if  she  kissed  the  air. 

The  wharfman  asked  where  I  was  born, 

I  waved  to  all  the  tides — 
And  whither  I  was  journeying, 

I  leaned  against  their  sides — 

And  if  I  carried  treasure, 
I  waved  to  all  the  ships. 
They  searched  a  night,  they  searched  a  day, 
But  did  not  search  my  lips. 

I  blindly  smiled,  my  feet  were  wild, 
My  lips  were  quaint  and  curled, 

For  as  I  came  back  from  Zanzos, 
I  went  reeling  up  the  world. 


THE  DOOM-BRIDE 

What  is  it  there,  coming  over  the  lonely, 

The  long  heath-side? 
Is  it  the  shake  of  the  alder-trees  only, 

Where  the  winds  ride? 
Or  is  it  the  walk  of  the  Strangers  that  never 

Can  tell  or  turn? 

Or  is  it  the  bog-mist  that  carries  forever 
The  dead  fairy  children  that  cannot  be  buried 

In  fen,  or  fern, 

The  little  dead  Funs  that  are  harried  and  hurried 
For  fear  of  wild  saints  that  have  blessed  the  land 
direly, 

Sealing  the  ground, 
For  vain,  little  fay-graves  too  holy  entirely. 

Is  it  a  sound? 
Or  is  it  a  sleep,  or  a  sorrow  that  glimmers, 

Beginning  its  plain? 

Or  the  coat  of  a  poor,  needy  ghost  there,  that 
shimmers, 

Ragged  as  rain? 
Or  is  it  the  leaves  that  are  frightened  at  Goers 

That  no  leaf  sees? 


Or  the  old  king  that  paces  out,  when  the  night 

lowers, 
Dead,  at  his  ease? 

Then,  what  is  it  there,  coming  over  the  dreary, 

The  dread  heath-side? 
There  is  no  world-woman  so  wild  or  so  weary, 

Where  the  winds  ride! 

The  Doom-bride  the  fierce  priest  of  Kerry  cursed 
on  me 

For  my  sin  and  grief! 

'Tis  the  walk  of  the  Doom-bride  that's  down  and 
upon  me! 

Farewell,  Mary  Keefe! 


[16] 


MY  DARKNESS 

Oh  come,  my  darkness! 

There  has  been  too  much  of  light, 

Too  much  of  heaping  noon. 

Give  me  the  empty  night! 

And  let  there  be 

No  ministration  of  the  moon, 

Nor  gold  along  the  sea. 

Let  no  leaf 

Turn  argent,  and  no  tree 

Be  quickened  into  silver  grief: 

Fold  up  the  arduous  bright; 

Beat  down  and  still 

The  howling  of  the  kennelled  will 

And  hungry  hounds  of  sight! 

Oh  come  my  darkness! 


[17] 


THE  FLYING  DEAD 

The  wind  was  full  of  withered  leaves, 

The  golden  and  the  red ; 
They  cried  to  one  who  hid  his  eyes, 

"Follow  the  flying  dead. 

Come  loose  your  soul  from  off  the  bough 
Where  it  doth  hang  and  sigh, 

And  give  it  to  the  long-maned  wind 
And  see  your  dead  soul  fly. 

And  loose  your  heart  from  off  the  stem 
Where  it  doth  pulse  and  pale, 

And  on  the  sea  of  running  air 
Let  your  dead  heart  sail. 

For  only  the  dead  are  travellers," 
The  wild  leaves  sang  and  said. 

"Follow,  follow,  follow, 
Follow  the  flying  dead!" 


[18] 


THE  HIGH  HOUSE 


I  built  a  hundred  houses, 

I  built  them  one  by  one ; 
But  all  my  pretty  houses 

Were  too  small  when  they  were  done : 

But  all  my  little  houses 

Leaned  upon  my  head, 
And  all  their  little  roof-beams 

Crowded  me  in  bed. 

And  then  I  said,  I'll  build  a  house, 
A  house  both  wide  and  high, 

A  house  that  will  be  fitting 
For  as  tall  a  man  as  I. 

I  build  you  high,  I  build  you  wide, 
The  buttresses  along  your  side, 
Bull-shouldered,  crouched  against  my  prize 
And  braced  your  bulk  with  burly  thighs. 

I  heaped  you  high  with  many  a  tower 
And  piled  your  parapets  with  power, 
Your  ramparts  rode  the  world  like  lords, 
Your  turrets  hurt  the  sun  like  swords. 

[19] 


And  there  were  halls  as  large  as  France, 
And  fifty  where  a1  man  might  dance, 
A  hundred  more  for  love  and  sleep : 
The  tallest,  where  a  man  could  weep. 

But  houses  that  are  built  too  high 

Have  souls  as  high  again, 
And  houses  that  hob-nob  the  sky 

Turn  from  the  tallest  men. 

So,  when  my  house  was  capped  and  done, 

And  I  would  in  and  bide, 
My  house,  you  leaned  against  the  sun, 

And  heavily  you  sighed. 

Then,  with  a  mighty  groan  you  reared 

Your  helmet  like  a  war, 
And,  as  your  mighty  tears  appeared, 

You  shut  your  mighty  door. 


[20] 


ESTABLISHED 

I  made  a  house  of  houselessness, 

A  garden  of  your  going: 
And  seven  trees  of  seven  wounds 

You  gave  me,  all  unknowing: 
I  made  a  feast  of  golden  grief 

That  you  so  lordly  left  me, 
I  made  a  bed  of  all  the  smiles 

Whereof  your  lip  bereft  me : 
I  made  a  sun  of  your  delay, 

Your  daily  loss,  his  setting: 
I  made  a  wall  of  all  your  words 

And  a  lock  of  your  forgetting. 


[21] 


A  DREAM  OF  SAPPHO 

She  slowly  came,  I  knew  her  by  the  sign, 
And  fair  she  was,  but  far  more  strange  than  fair. 

I  knew  her  by  the  roses  in  her  hair, 

Pierian,  and  she  saluted  mine, 
Lifting  her  pale  hand  in  that  gesture  high 
The  deathless  use  to  those  that  cannot  die. 

(She  bore  a1  purple  napkin  for  her  lap; 
Her    sandal   had    a    fair-wrought   Lydian 
strap.) 

She    touched    my  lyre    and    listened — while   she 

seemed 

As  one  dimmed   in  some  doubtful   dream   re- 
dreamed  ; 
Then,  ah,  the  voice  she  from  those  lips  released, 

All  birds  and  bees  and  singing  in  a  sigh — 
"Once,  with  a1  thing  like  this — "  she  said,  and 
ceased. 

And  then, 

That  flowery  fluting  fell  again ; 
[22] 


"I  passed,  as  some  far,  careless  queen  doth  pass, 
While,    gem    by    gem,    her    broken    necklace 
streams : 

Perhaps  one  follows,  finding  fearful  gleams, 
Long  after  in  the  pale,  pale  grass." 

I  said,  "None  with  more  living  lives 
Than  those  fierce  fugitives!" 

"But  I  am  dead,"  she  said,  "the  violet-twined 
Is  dead  with  that  which  never  man  can  find" 

"Rubies  enough,"  I  weeping  said, 
And  red  to  broider  all  thy  bed!" 

Then  she,  with  queenhood  most  ineffable, 
Put  by  her  golden  throat's  bereaven  swell: 

"Stand  up,  O  friend,"  she  said,  "stand  face  to  face, 
And  of  thy  hidden  eyes  unveil  the  grace!" 

Then  with  what  looks  we  leaned  and  gazed  long 

while! 
Drunkard  meets  wreathed  drunkard  with  that 

smile! 

And  what  full-lyred  beaker  brimmed  up, 
With  wet  lips  meeting  on  the  honied  cup! 
And  as  sweet  drunkards,  reeling,  spill 
The  crested  waves  of  cups  they  fill, 
With  lovely  laughs,  inside  the  purple  vest, 
So  we  with  laughter,  staggered  breast  to  breast. 

[23] 


I  wake,  the  book  drops  from  my  dreaming  hand, 
As  now  thy  palm  august  falls  out  of  mine. 

Oh,  where   is   that  strong  singing!     Where   the 

wine! 
Prevailing  lip!     And  leafy  brow  of  thine! 

Only  the  long  sea  and  the  Lesbian  strand! 

Art  thou  but  sand  that  blows  with  trodden  sand? 
Where  is  thy  burning  hand.  .  .  . 


[24] 


THE  MUSE  IN  THE  DOOR 

I  do  not  know  your  name, 

Nor  your  fate. 
You  come  as  you  came  before. 

You  are  late, 

But  you  and  mine  are  the  same. 
Submitted  to  me,  once  more! 

You  carry  the  sign — 
You  are  late, 

But  mine! 

You  are  mine,  as  you  were  before! 

For  you  and  mine  are  the  same. 
You  are  lame. 

You  pause  in  the  door, 
With  desire  and  danger  and  doubt. 
You  detach  from  the  wind  without — 
You  are  mine,  as  you  were  before, 
You  are  slow  for  pity  and  pride. 

Ah,  you  are  lame,  but  mine! 

You  carry  the  sign — 
The  vultures  in  your  side! 

You  are  he  whom  the  beaks  defile. 
You  are  faint  from  the  walls  you  broke, 


You  smile. 

You  are  bright  and  bereft, 
You  are  heavy  with  theft! 
There  is  fire  in  your  cloak! 
Master  of  stealth!     You  are  he! 

Mine  to  compel  or  refuse! 
And  you  are  released  to  me 
As  Barabbas  was  loosed  to  the  Jews! 


POET  TO  POET 

To  my  Singing  Brother,  C.  G.  O  W. 

Since  you  are  with  me  now,  my  Bird, 

I  sing  alone  no  more, 
We  go  with  many  a  silver  word 

Where  we  have  wept  before. 

We  go  with  many  a  silver  sound, 
Where  once  we  went  so  still, 

We  take  the  forest  for  a  hound, 
And  chase  the  bounding  hill. 

We  chase  the  bee  where  honey  drips, 

We  chase  the  chanting  morn, 
We  put  the  forest  to  our  lips 
And  blow  it  like  a  horn. 

We  shake  the  forest  like  a  flag, 

Like  banners  burning  red, 
Our  words  are  running  with  the  stag — 
With  leaves  the  wind  has  sped. 

Our  words  are  running  with  the  hare 
The  hunters  never  find, 


Whose  feet  are  like  the  purple  air 
That  leaves  the  pack  behind. 

But  ah,  no  hunter  ever  heard 

Such  cries  as  we  let  out, 
Since  you  are  with  me  now,  my  Bird, 

With  echoes  leagued  about. 

The  echoes  all  take  hands  and  dance 

When  you  set  up  your  song; 
The  hairy  hiders  peep  and  prance 

And  love  and  listen  long. 

The  hairy  hiders  weep  their  fill 

O'er  singing's  aftermath, 
To  find  the  wine-red  words  you  spill 

Along  the  leafy  path. 

And  wine-red  words  leap  up  and  sing, 
And  high  boughs  sing  for  pain, 

While  thrushes  wait  and  hush  their  wing, 
And  rivers  hush  the  rain. 

And  Life  it  sings  of  Death  deferred, 

And  Death  sings  lustily, 
Since  you  are  with  me  now,  my  Bird, 

As  winds  are  with  the  tree ! 


SALE 

"Sell  all  and  follow  me,"  you  said. 

I  sold  my  wine.     I  sold  my  bread. 

I  sold  my  horses  and  my  bed. 

I  sold  my  kings,  I  sold  my  crowns, 

And  then,  I  wept  and  sold  my  clowns. 

I  sold  my  armies  and  my  state, 

I  sold  my  folly  and  my  fate. 

I  sold  my  safety  and  my  sun, 

I  sold  my  sorrows,  one  by  one. 

I  sold  the  demons  from  my  heart, 

And  saw  my  lovely  fiends  depart. 

I  sold  my  scarlet,  sold  my  lords, 
My  altars,  engines,  scutcheons,  swords, 
My  ships,  my  heroes,  tower  and  town, 
My  roads,  my  ramparts,  my  renown. 
I  sold  my  sea1,  I  sold  my  land, 
I  took  my  brave  god  by  the  hand, 
I  took  my  god  and  cloaked  his  face 
And  sold  him  in  the  market  place. 

Now,  it  is  finished,  and  I  wait, 
Robbed  and  robust,  without  your  gate, 

[29] 


You  cry,  "My  beggar!"    We  embrace. 
The  golden  tears  run  down  your  face. 
The  golden  tears  they  ray  and  run ; 
"I  asked  too  much!"  you  weep  undone. 
You  stream  and  stream  with  piteous  gold 
On  me,  the  bright,  the  bare,  the  bold. 


[30] 


THE  MASTER  OF  POETS 

From  the  deep  the  call  of  the  Name! 

I  flew  from  the  one  that  came, 

The  one  that  cried  as  he  ran, 

And  calling  on  "Pan,  Pan,  Pan!" 

For  leafy  succour,  I  fled. 

But  ever  onward  he  sped 

With  lips  that  dripped  from  the  vine 

And  purple  splashed  knees 

And  a  singing  sound  of  trees 

And  looks  that  were  wild  with  wine. 

And  ever  beside  him  sprang, 

Bright  with  the  striped  skin, 

Strange  shapes  that  sighed  and  sang 

With  golden  din; 

And  lions  with  eyes  of  sard 

And  leopards  and  leapers  whose  thighs 

Gave  the  goatling  wide  surprise: 

While  a  smell  of  nameless  nard, 

With  musk  of  roses  and  roots, 

Fell  from  the  runner  that  came 

With  a  lyre  in  flame 

And  a  flooding  fury  of  flutes. 

[31] 


He  came  as  the  falcon  flies, 

Stretched  beak  and  windy  wings; 

I,  falling  as  one  that  dies, 

Heard  the  Name  that  sweeps  like  a  sword, 

And  a  voice  of  thunderous  things 

That  cried,  "lacchus,  Lord! 

lacchus,  lacchus,  lacchus," 

Till  the  winds  and  the  waves  were  dumb. 

"Bromius!     Master  and  Lover! 

The  curled  Theban  has  come! 

O,  you  that  have  leaves  for  cover, 

Beat  breasts  with  the  love  that  is  fear! 

Hide  from  the  Lovely,  the  Lover! 

Dion,  the  Raging,  is  here!" 

Then  a  murmur,  that  murmured  as  sweet 
As  lutes  in  far  places  that  fade : 
And  I  heard  his  crystal  feet 
That  stole  to  my  side  and  stayed. 
And  his  call  was  the  sound  of  the  sea1, 
The  'plaining  of  rivers  in  rain, 
The  moan  of  all  birds  there  be 
That  make  singing  in  their  pain. 

I  cried  where  I  lay  in  the  fern, 

"O,  you  who  are  crushed  as  the  grape, 

Bid  me  not  turn! 

Let  me  see  not  your  terrible  shape! 

O  call  not  me  but  another! 

Theban,  to  look  is  to  burn 

[32] 


And  go  the  way  of  your  mother! 
Bid  me  not  turn!" 

He  ceased,  as  Philomel 

Sinks  fainting  into  the  night, 

With  sighing  sob  remote, 

Or,  as  a  broken  bell : 

So  ceased  the  viol-ing  flight 

Of  thrushes  in  his  throat. 

But  me  the  silence  smote. 

I  looked  as  he  who  fears, 

Turning,  reluctant,  for  sight.  .  .  . 

I  saw  the  red  god  white! 

I  saw  his  silver  tears! 

"My  Lord,  have  I  dreamed,  or  slept, 
It  seemed  you  were  one  that  leapt 
With  lovely  leapings  and  cries 
And  laughs  in  your  lordly  eyes 
And  heels  of  a1  dance-adept! 
I  could  have  laughed  and  dared 
To  embrace  your  side,  all  bared, 
Frisk  with  your  mighty  knees, 
And  prank  my  fill  and  please 
Me  in  coigns  for  kisses  where 
Deft  sunbeams  never  dare, 
Though  they  sigh 
At  the  robe  that  blows  awry. 
I  could  have  curled  and  clung 
To  so  laughing  a  god  and  young, 

[33] 


Playing  with  your  most  fair 
And  deep,  depending  hair." 
He  said,  "Give  me  your  tongue 
For  my  despair." 


[34] 


THERE  WHERE  THE  NIGHT  WAS 
TALL  I  LIFTED  YOU 

To  Kallista 

There  where  the  night  was  tall,  I  lifted  you, 
Tall  as  the  night,  and  deep  as  depthless  deep : 

I  based  you  on  the  under  dark  and  drew 
The  upper  dark  about  your  lips  that  sigh, 

And  hid  with  height  your  towering  eyes  that  weep 
As  weep  incessantly  the  sootheless  seas 
With  grief  of  largeness  ever  unredressed; 

Like  some  poor  Titan,  leaning  on  the  sky 

That  finds  no  mighty  bed  to  give  him  ease, 
Nor  any  monster's  breast. 


[35] 


I  DREAMED  YOU  WEPT 

To  Kallista 

I  dreamed  you  wept  upon  me  in  a  dream ; 
Your   tears  were   strange — they  ran   a   ruddy 
stream. 

Then  passion  made  me  strong,  I  did  unbind 
The  sea  to  wash  that  stream  incarnadined ; 

And  where  the  winds  were  fastened  in  the  skies, 
Untied  their  silken  scarves  to  staunch  your  eyes. 

I  drove  the  shouldering  mountains  in  a  ring 

Like  herds  of  bison  bulls,  rude  bellowing, 
That  stoop  their  maned  heads,  as  at  the  brink 

Of  some  deep  river  where  they  roar  and  drink; 
So  at  your  rivering  eyes,  each  hunch-back  king 

Abased  his  boughs  with  spilling  nests  of  spring: 
Like  plumes  the  iron  pinetrees  leaned  about, 

The  eagles  doffed  the  sun  from  bending  crests, 
And  all  the  horny  innocents  looked  out 

From  ferny  flanks  to  wonder  at  your  breasts. 

You  would  not  look  into  one  feathered  bed, 

[36] 


Nor  stroke  the  mighty  vassals  that  I  led, 
But  turned  away  your  lustrous  eyes  that  bled. 

I  drove  you  deserts  in  a1  caravan 

With  heaped  camel  and  Mahomedan; 

I  brought  you  peaks  with  snowy  hats  that  shone, 
And   caverns   where   dark  waters   made   their 
moan, 

And  poets'  tongues  that  quivered  as  I  came, 
And  Night  that  paced  like  a  purple  dame, 

And  tender  younglings,  leopards,  lambs  and  doves 
And  peacocks,  and  the  lusty  boy  that  loves. 

I  brought  you  lions ;  and  a  thousand  years : 
I  bore  you  valleys  full  of  rose  and  rain, 

And  desperate  songs  to  ease  you  of  your  tears; 
But  still  your  flowery  mouth  it  did  complain. 

Then  passion  made  me  tall,  I  heaved  me 
Against  the  sky  and  shook  it  like  a  tree. 

The  stars  flew  out  like  birds  with  chirping  tunes, 
And  from  their  boughs  I  loosened  all  the  moons: 

The  moons  they  fell  like  apples  in  your  lap 
And  told  your  knees  their  silverine  mishap ; 

Your  silver  knees  were  weary  of  the  weight, 
Your  lap  lamented  of  its  moony  state, 

And  from  the  fallen  fruitage  of  the  skies 
You  hid  the  beauteous  bleeding  of  your  eyes. 

[37] 


FORGOTTEN  PATRICK 

Ah,  Forgotten  Patrick,  it  is  long  now, 
,'It  is  long  and  long  now,  since  we  left  you. 
Where  you  walked,  Forgotten  Patrick,  in  the  wild 

grass, 

With  us  beside  you,  noticing  your  dark  hair 
And  the  little  funny  corners  of  your  smiling. 

Who'd  'av'  thought  that  we  could  do  without  you, 
And  do  so  well  without  you,  in  the  main,  too. 
Without  you  and  your  whimsy  ways  and  talking! 
(You,  the  plain  and  quiet  fellow  'neath  the  wild 
grass!) 

But  it's  better  to  forget  you  and  be  easy, 
Than  be  sitting  half  the  needy  night  and  staring 
Out  the  way  you  went  along  the  leaning  wild  grass, 
And  you,  Forgotten  Patrick,  never  looking. 


[38] 


TEARS 

/ 

For  there  was  never  rain  enough, 
Rain  enough,  rain  enough,  before, 

To  put  out  the  fire,  put  out  the  fire 
In  the  burning  core! 

And  now,  that  there  is  rain  enough, 
Rain  enough,  rain  enough  and  more, 

Who  died  by  fire  dies  by  rain 
Behind  the  drowning  door! 


[39] 


THE  FAIRY  HUSBAND 

All  in  the  shady 

Wood  I  met  a  lady 
Who  sighed  full  sore. 

I  begged  the  reason 
For  grief  in  singing  season, 
But  ever,  more  and  more, 

The  fair 

Wept  in  her  hair 
And  made  a  lovely  wail. 

She  said  "I  am  so  pale, 

And  I  complain  of  wings, 
I  am  so  pale  for  love  of  fairy  things! 

I  had  a  pretty  husband, 

I  had  a  fairy  husband, 

I  had  a  wingy  husband, 
But  he  went  away. 

The  wind  it  thieved  me, 

The  Moon  bereaved  me, 
They  stole   my  pretty  husband   for    their 

play! 

Before,  at  each  dew-falling, 
He  would  make  owl-calling, 

[40] 


While  some  flower,  shaking 

O'er  his  nest, 
Proved  he  would  be  waking 

From  his  winking  rest. 
And  I,  wan  with  wonder, 
Found  him,  in  under, 

By  his  crimson  vest; 

By  his  mooney  eyes, 

By  his  silver  thighs, 
And  his  wings  of  the  purple  dragon  flies. 

Wings,  wings! 
I  am  so  pale  for  love  of  fairy  things! 

When,  in  the  morning, 

My  mother  came  to  my  adorning, 

She  would  stare 
At  fairy  trinkets  in  my  hair; 

And  cry  surprise 
At  strangeness  in  my  eyes. 

My  father  would  be  talking 

Of  my  soft  walking, 
For  feet  are  faint  that  follow  fays  by  night; 

And  'tis  said 
That  elf-wives  cheeks  are  white. 

I  could  not  spin  my  thread, 
So  slow  my  hands  for  weight  of  elfin  rings. 

But,  ah,  my  heart  was  red! 
So  pale  at  last  for  love  of  fairy  things! 

Me  he  decked  with  prinking  care, 
He,  the  wild  tameless; 


And  brought  me  playthings,  fierce  and  fair, 

That  must  be  nameless. 
With  moon-shoes  for  mine  ease 

So  fine  and  flimsy, 
And  magic  cloaks  to  please 

That  soul  of  whimsy. 

My  bed, 

It  had  a  cobweb  spread 
Woven  all  with  pretties; 
And  when  he  put  me  in, 
He  made  a  lovely  din 

Of  elfin  ditties. 

Far!     It  is  far  where  now  he  sings, 
And  I  am  pale  for  love  of  fairy  things! 

I  had  a  pretty  husband, 
I  had  a  fairy  husband, 
I  had  a  wingy  husband, 

But  he  went  away: 
The  wind  it  thieved  me, 
The  moon  bereaved  me, 

They  stole  my  pretty  husband  for  their 
play." 


[42] 


THE  OWL 

The  Owl! 
Ah,  the  gray,  gray  owl! 

When  I  was  sighing, 

Near  unto  dying, 
It  was  the  owl  that  called  me  where  I  bled. 

To  hark,  I  ceased  me, 

The  fiends  released  me. 
It  is  the  owl  that  putteth  men  to  bed. 

The  owl ! 
Ah,  the  darkling  owl! 

If  he  speak  to  thee, 

He  will  undo  thee, 
For  all  is  naught  save  going  where  he  led, 

All  naught  but  flying 

Unto  that  crying; 
And  'tis  the  owl  that  putteth  men  to  bed. 

The  owl! 
Ah,  the  hiding  owl! 

Why  are  men  weeping 

Who  might  be  sleeping? 
The  thrall  of  sleep  need  never  woo  nor  wed; 

[43] 


The  steeds  he  rides  are 
More  bright  than  brides  are, 
And  'tis  the  owl  that  putteth  men  to  bed. 

The  owl! 
Ah,  the  horny  owl! 

Who,  that  doth  love  thee 

Would  put  above  thee 
Grecian  Philomel  who  wounds  the  dead? 

It  is  her  fashion 

To  break  souls  with  passion, 
'But  'tis  the  owl  that  putteth  men  to  bed. 

The  owl ! 
Ah,  the  crying  owl! 

Hark,  o'er  the  meadow, 

The  calling  shadow! 
And  like  a  shade  my  soul  to  him  hath  fled. 

Body  lie  starkly! 

Soul  riding  darkly! 
All  with  the  owl  that  putteth  men  to  bed! 


[44] 


OWL  SINISTER 

Ah,  can  you  never  still, 

Unhealable  complainer  of  the  wounded  will? 
You  Groan-in-the-dark, 
You  sobber  of  no  shape, 
And  strong  negation  of  the  lark! 
You  wrong-recounter  of  no  words ! 

Ape 

Of  lovely  birds, 

And  hunchback  of  the  singing  breed! 
You  void!    You,  irremediable  Need, 

Make  nothing  of  desire. 
With  long,  cold,  crying  famine  you  put  out  the  fire, 

And  esperances  of  the  day  rescind. 
Eater  of  shadows!     Ghoul  and  gullet  of  the  wind! 


[45] 


THE  SILENT  HOUND 

Down,  my  hound! 

I  am  the  stag, 
And  you  the  Mouth. 
There  is  no  sound, 
No  burst  of  baying 
In  this  dumb,   intentioned  pressure   toward   the 

crag: 

No  howl  of  slaying, 
No  bleat  of  mine 
From  wild  tongue  carved  in  drouth. 

No  sound! 

No  red  on  the  road  for  a  sign ; 
Only  our  violence,  still 
As  carnage  seen  in  sleep, 

Fierce  with  will, 
And  your  leap 
For  your  shuddering  goal, 
The  throat  of  the  desecrate — 
I,  the  hurrying  soul, 
You,  the  fate ! 

No  sigh,  no  sound! 
We  run! 

[46] 


We  are  not  two,  but  one ; 
For  you  hang  to  my  side. 

You  ride! 

My  hound! 


[47] 


SHE  WROTE  IT 
To  Kallista 

She  wrote,  "only  your  own  words 

could  tell  you  how  I  am  loving  you/' 

She  wrote  it,  "Only  your  own  words." 
She,  who  called  like  bulls  and  birds, 
She,  who  throbbed  a  thrushes  throat 
And  bayed  the  wind  back  as  he  cried, 
She,  who  moaned  the  pigeon's  note 
And  shook  the  pinetree  when  she  sighed : 
Mistress  of  all  words  and  wails, 
Giving  tongue  with  nightingales! 

She,  whose  pea-cock  coloured  cries 
Woke  the  dead  man  in  his  bed, 
And  fooled  him  back  from  Paradise, 
With  his  pale  heart  turned  to  red: 
She,  the  horn  that  warriors  led, 
Clamour  of  the  larks  that  rise, 
And  viol  of  the  swan  that  dies! 

She  wrote  it!  She,  my  lyric  you! 
You  beat  of  drum,  you  lull  of  lute! 

[48] 


You  voice  of  cataract  and  dew, 

You  verse,  you  violin,  you  flute! 

You  roar!     You  sound  of  loves  that  sue! 

Tongue  of  the  world,  who  pierce  and  coo! 


[49] 


WHERE  THERE  IS  NO  LARK 

Where  there  is  no  lark, 
And  the  Great  Couch  is  spread, 
Death  stirring  on  his  pillow  in  the  dark, 

Makes  drowsy  sounds  of  kissing  in  the  dark, 
And  lifting  up  a  shadow-wreathed  head, 

Calls  like  a  sleepy  lover,  "come  to  bed." 


[so] 


AS   I  WENT  BY 

As  I  went  by, 

An  old  man  with  a  curded  eye, 

Said :     "Much  as  you  can  laugh  and  kiss, 

You  will  be  like  this." 
And  I  did  not  believe  him, 
But  made  haste  to  leave  him, 
Laughing  all  the  way. 

Yet,  another  day, 

He  made  the  self-same  say, 

For  my  laughter  grieved  him. 
And  I  believed  him! 

Then  I  shook 

Like  a  willow  in  a  brook, 

Like  the  ox  from  the  goad, 

Like  the  slave  beneath  the  load, 

Like  the  reed  under  rain, 

And  the  sick  man  in  pain, 

And  the  hind  before  the  hound, 

And  the  new  corpse  in  the  ground ! 


[50 


THE  EAGLE  HUNTER 


I  said :     I  will  go  down, 

Save  me  from  hurts  of  height, 

Wounds  of  renown, 
The  spurning  spears  of  light 
And  scorn  of  the  gigantic  flight. 

I  will  desist, 
Give  up  the  great  antagonist ; 

I  will  go  hence 
From  this  most  dire  magnificence 

And  regal  state 
Of  battle  desperate; 

Resign 

The  hunt  of  eagles  to  the  fine 
And  fierce  essay,  the  dare-and-do 
Of  taller  men  and  new. 

I  will  restore 

Me  to  the  valley's  eve  and  noon, 
And  crack  my  heart  no  more, 
But  hide,  in  poor  delight 

Of  harmless  things, 
From  haunt  of  height 
And  windy  width  of  wings. 
[52] 


Let  fly  the  towering  prey, 
Unwieldy  as  the  moon! 
I  will  go  down  and  stay, 
Be  succoured  by  disgrace, 

Too  mean  for  high  mishap. 
Be  safe  and  low  my  chase, 
No  Titan  in  my  trap 
With  conquered  terror's  mighty  eye, 

And  that  great  sigh 
That  makes  the  hunter  pale! 

Ah,  let  no  sun-insulting  sail 
Of  pinions  tempt  me  now, 

From  my  low  vow, 
Nor  giant  shapes  go  by 
Between  me  and  the  sky! 


[53] 


TWO  PORTRAITS 


He  was  so  fine  with  youth,  he  seemed  at  feast: 
His  unborn  honours  pha'ntomed  up  with  wings, 

Like  spears  of  dawn,  before  suns  climb  the  east, 
With  triumph  of  unconsummated  things. 

II 

Then  you  came,  kingly,  decked  in  all  your  dead 
And  panoplied  with  trophies  of  disgrace, 

.Fulfilment  of  defeat  to  crown  your  head, 
And  all  your  perfect  follies  in  your  face. 


[54] 


THE  FOUR  GOATS 

There  are  four  goats  upon  the  hill, 

There  might  have  been  but  three; 
One  for  Carnarvon,  you  and  me, 
Each  with  his  long,  long  eye,  and  still, 
There  are  four  goats  upon  the  hill. 

And  one  is  neither  yours  nor  mine: 

There  might  have  been  a  face 
Like  his  in  some  far,  other  place, 
His  horn  is  like  a  wreathed  vine, 
And  he  is  neither  yours  nor  mine. 


[55] 


THE  TWO  iBONNIE  LORDS 

There  were  two  bonnie  lords 

And  they  rode  and  they  rode, 
There  were  two  bonnie  lords 
And  they  rode! 

There  were  two  bonnie  lords 

And  they  rode  wide  and  weel, 
Edward  of  Carnarvon 
And  Edward  O'Neill. 

There  were  two  bonnie  lords 

And  they  rode  hound  to  heel ; 
One  was  a  great  Earl 
And  one  chief  of  the  Neill. 

The  two  Edwards  they  were 

And  one  was  a  prince; 
The  other  was  fairer 
Than  any  man  since. 

The  other  was  so  fair 

That  men  thought  him  a  dame? 
And  Carnarvon,  the  bard, 
Made  a  song  of  his  name. 

[56] 


And  the  bard  was  a  king 

With  an  eye  like  the  sea, 
And  wherever  he  went 
He  sang  lustily. 

And  wherever  he  went, 

And  wherever  he'd  wend, 
He  only  thought  the  more 
Of  his  bonnie  friend. 

There  were  two  bonnie  lords, 

And  they  rode  wide  and  well, 
Across  the  bridge  of  heaven 
And  the  parapets  of  hell. 

And  they  rode  and  they  rode, 
And  when  they  came  away, 
It  was  strange  spoil  they  carried 
Across  the  night  and  day. 

It  was  strange  spoil  they  carried 

To  deck  out  a  queen, 
And  make  the  lady  golden 
That  hung  their  breasts  between. 

There  were  two  bonnie  lords 

And  they  rode  and  they  rode, 
There  were  two  bonnie  lords 
And  they  rodel 

[57] 


THE  BEGINNING  AND  THE 
FULL  OF  LOVE 

Ah,  then,  those  angels  in  the  wingy  eyes, 
Kinder  than  little  stars  that  come  not  near 
For  fear  of  burning;  silvery  acolytes, 
Swinging  far,  careful  censors  with  averted  face, 
Too  far  to  stir  the  garment,  the  untroubled  hair- 
White  garment  hardly  trembled  with  a  sigh.  .  . 

Now,  now,  the  blood-red  pallium's  broidered 

weight, 

Wild,  shaken  banner  of  the  onslaughting  heart, 
The  heavy  woof  of  flaming  chains, 

And  wars  of  rubies! 
The  last  fierce  ornament  of  the  full-robed  love! 


[58] 


THE   GOING 

He  told  the  stones  the  time  was  spent, 

He  told  the  little  stair, 
And  every  gentle  ornament 

The  housewife  dusts  with  care. 

He  told  the  fire  and  chimney-place, 

Confided  to  the  mouse, 
And  quickly  covering  his  face, 

He  wept  and  told  the  house. 

He  cried  it  to  the  little  bed, 

He  breathed  it  to  the  bee, 
He  told  the  roses  white  and  red, 

But  he  could  not  tell  the  tree. 


[59] 


THE  LOVELY  GOER 

Who  has  slain  the  town? 
Who  slew  the  flutes  in  going? 
Who  left  the  wine  un-flowing, 
And  weather-cocks  un-crowing, 
Where  smiles  are  lost  in  snowing, 

Smiles  of  king  and  clown? 
The  dance  it  dims  and  dozes, 
The  song  it  fails  and  closes, 
There  is  rain  upon  the  roses 

And  the  flags  are  down. 
Who  left  the  rose  un-glowing? 
Who  slew  the  flutes  in  going? 

Who  has  slain  the  town? 


[60] 


THE  CRYING  HEARTS 

I  sing  the  hearts  that  all  night  long 

Were  broken  on  my  breast, 
Whose  crying  was  as  sweet  as  song, 

Accursed  and  caressed; 
Whose  moan  was  sweet  as  murdered  birds 
That  die  with  pretty  'plaining  words. 

(My  one,  my  two,  my  two  in  one, 
Hiding  from  the  moon  and  sun!) 

I  put  my  bleating  hearts  to  bed 

And  folded  back  the  day, 
My  pretty  horned  hearts  that  bled, 

I  hid  their  wounds  away: 
And  like  two  rivers,  hid  with  leaves, 
They  sang  as  water  sings  and  grieves. 

(My  two,  my  one,  my  one  in  two, 
Hiding  from  the  dark  and  dew!) 

Of  river  leaves  that  dip  and  drown 

I  made  them  covers  deep ; 
My  breast  that  staggered  up  and  down, 

It  rocked  my  hearts  to  sleep; 
[61] 


And  like  three  rivers  running  strong, 
They  shook  the  leaves    the  whole   night 

long. 

(My  one,  my  two,  my  two  in  three, 
Hiding  from  all  things  that  be!) 


[62] 


DEATH  SHALL  NOT  EASE  ME  OF  YOU 
To  Kalllsta 

Death  shall  not  ease  me  of  you, 

No,  nor  yet 

That  place  where  men  go  to  forget: 

That  curious  place 

Where  beds  are  made. 

It  shall  not  ease  me  of  your  face, 

Nor  I,  in  darkness  laid, 

Be  ere  untied 

From  the  vine  of  your  persisting  side, 

Nor  flowers  of  your  dissuadeless  breast, 

Nor  rest 

From  wonder.     Though  I  drew 

The  earthy  cover  all  about 

To  succour  me  from  you 

I  shall  not  keep  you  out. 

Your  might 

Shall  circumvent  the  night: 
While  you  still    press 
Upon  me  obdurate  loveliness: 
And  in  your  princely  fashion 

[63] 


Rend  my  death 

With  absolute  compassion. 

I  can  not  save  you  Love, 

From  me,  relieve  my  Dove 

Of  hovering; 

Nor  loose  your  love-arrested  wing, 

Nor  release  in  any  wise 

The  hold  of  our  tenacious  eyes; 

But  your  divine  shall  tremble  me 

And  break  my  dead  heart  endlessly. 

Death  shall  not  ease  me  of  you, 

No,  nor  yet, 

That  place  where  men  go  to  forget. 


[64] 


THE    DELIGHT 

7 

I  said,  I  have  been  long  enough  away 

From  my  delight! 
I  will  arise  and  go  before  the  day 

Has  beggared  princely  night. 
I  shall  go  as  waters  go 
With  silver-footed  flow 
The  moon  doth  lift  and  light 
I  said  I  have  been  long  enough  away 

From  my  delight. 

What  was  the  voice  that  answered  in  a  tune 
A  ditty  faint  as  fluting  in  the  moon? 

"Who  can  find  a  fallen  star, 
Pearly  prey  of  night? 
Who  knows  where  lips  of  lovers  are 
When  their  bones  are  white? 

What  red  can  run  in  dead  men's  veins, 
Who  set  the  snow  a-fire? 
Or  catch,  by  foam  of  vanished  manes, 
Horses  of  desire? 

The  wave  retreated,  who  can  stay — 
The  unremembered  tune — 

[65] 


Or  save  for  silver  in  the  day 
Colour  of  the  moon? 

Who  shall  engreen  a  winter's  leaf, 
Withered  in  the  cold? 
Or  hold  the  fury  of  his  grief, 
When  his  grief  is  old? 

The  honey  cup  is  full  of  sand 
That  blows  with  windy  sound. 
Who  can  name  what  viewless  hand 
Spilled  me  on  the  ground?" 

What  was  the  voice  that  answered  in  a  tune, 
A  ditty  faint  as  fluting  in  the  moon? 


[66] 


FAUN-TAKEN 

Who  was  it  then  that  lately  took  me  in  the  wood? 
And  was  it  I  that  lay  twice  seven  nights  on 

leaves, 

With  musky  hair  against  my  side! 
That  cruel  hair  that  kept  me  kindly  from  the 

cold! 

Gold,  gold! 

Of  yellow  eyes  that  glance  and  hide! 
Am  I  the  maddened  one  that  goes — and  grieves 
For  lack  of  laughter  laughing  till  I  died? 

Oh,  drouth  of  grapey  laughter,  dearth  and 

drouth! 

Twice  seven  days  are  but  a  blurring  ring 
That  circles  round  the  corner  of  a  mouth! 
Oh,  wide,  wide  mouths  that  bellow  so,  or 

fling 
That  fluting  up    to   birds   like   spurted 

wine! 
But,   ah,   no   more,   those  sounds  without 

a  name — 

No  more  that  ambiguous  grace  of  god 
and  ape, 

[67] 


Where    strange    feet    dance  upon    the 

dripping  grape — 

Those     feet    one     must    not  see — that 

wounded  mine! 

Let  me  but  once  look  back  again  and  pass. 

Once  only  see  him  again — and  groan  and  go — 

The  lips  that  laugh  in  the  grass — 
That  kiss  in  a  way  one  must  not  know! 
The  lips  that  cling  the  mouths  of  pipes  and  suck 
The  roots  of    frightened    flowers    too    pale    to 

pluck; 
The  curls  that  vine  o'er  what  one  must  not  see — 

Those  horney  hiders  that  so  gored  me! 
Then,  run  and  run — again  to  the  hearths,  the  roofs! 
But    close    behind, — the    pipes,    the    pipes, — the 
hoofs! 


[68] 


MEA  CULPA 

The  night  was  living,  past  belief, 
The  lake  was  furtive  a's  a  thief : 
The  moon  was  wading  to  the  knee, 
And  I  was  as  bad  as  bad  could  be. 

I  was  more  living  than  the  night, 

I  made  the  lilies  drown  for  fright: 

I  was  more  furtive  than  the  lake, 

I  hardly  made  the  water  shake. 

I  lurked,  I  listened, — touched, —  and  soon, 

I  waded  deeper  than  the  moon. 


[69] 


THEY  SPREAD  THE  PLANETS 
OUT  FOR  ME 

Composed  in  Sleep  to  Kallista 

They  spread  the  planets  out  for  me, 
They  made  the  deep  so  fine. 

I  looked  to  East,  I  looked  to  West, 
To  choose  a  gaud  for  mine. 

I  took  a  moon,  I  took  a  star, 

I  took  your  silver  face: 
But  at  your  eyes  the  worlds  went  out, 

And  left  an  empty  place. 

And  at  your  eyes  the  day  grew  pale, 

The  night  put  up  his  pelf, 
The  sun  shut  out  his  jewel-bags, 

And  sighed  and  slew  himself. 

And  at  your  lips  the  god  leaned  out 
And  groaned  with  golden  care : 

His  golden  steps  went  staggering 
All  down  his  golden  stair. 

[70] 


THE  TRAPPER  OF  STARS 

The  trapper  of  stars  went  out  alone 

On  the  track  of  his  running  prey, 

And  his  eyes  were  the  eyes  of  his  prize  that 

shone 

And  his  look  illumed  the  way. 
But  anon,  he  sighed,  and  anon,  he  said, 
"The  trapping  of  stars  is  a  lonely  trade, 
Though  the  golden  game  be  won! 
Ah,  happy  the  hunters  that  hunt  in  the  sun, 
When  the  coloured  fields  are  gay! 
The  birds  of  the  night  have  a  sorrowful  say, 
And  the  dreads  of  the  dark  bestride  me. 
I  would  I  could  hunt  my  stars  by  day 
With  a  lover  that  ran  beside  me." 


[70 


THE  THREE  DEAD  TONGUES 

And  they  were  dead,  three  golden  tongues, 

All  in  their  winding  sheets: 
Three  lovers  came  unto  their  lips, 

Enquiring  for  their  sweets. 

"And  who  have  slain  our  golden  tongues  I" 

The  weeping  lovers  cried. 
"Six  leaden  ears  have  murthered  us, 

And  harried  till  we  died. 

"And  long  the  tunes  like  hurted  birds 

Will  peak  and  pine  for  song, 
And  flocks  of  bonnie,  bonnie  words, 

They  will  be  waiting  long. 

"They  will  be  waiting  poor  as  maids 

Whose  lemans  never  come, 
And  dead  babes  rocking  on  their  knees, 

Now  we  are  dead  and  dumb." 

"Ah,  nay,  ah  nay,"  the  lovers  cried, 

And  kissed  the  pretty  dead. 
And  soon  each  golden  tongue  that  died 

Was  dancing  in  his  bed. 

[72] 


THE  SAVANT 

Erudite  of  anguish, 
Seer 

Of  grief, 

Master  of  no-relief ; 

Savant  of  sorrow, 

Philosopher  of  fear; 

Doctor  of  dereliction, 

Collegian  of  disdain, 
Cloaked  in  honours  of  despair, 

Capped  with  care: 

Universitor  of  pain, 
The  learned  of  the  dark,, 

Awarded,  aware. 
You  might  be  too  proud 

Of  scholarship  so  bright, 
The  achieved  profession  of  the  night; 
If  you  were  not,  by  accident, 

The  uninstructed  of  delight. 
(Ah,  my  poor!     Adept  of  iron  that  sears  I 
Academician  of  slow  tears!) 
If  you  were  not,  for  all  of  this 

Renown,  and  most  illustrious  employ, 
The  innocent  of  bliss, 

The  barbarian  of  joy. 

[73] 


"I  LEAVE  YOU  NOW  WITH  YOUR 
DELICIOUS     EYES" 

Then  I  am  dead  with  my  delicious  eyes. 

Tell  all  who  come, 
Tell  him  who  knocks  and  cries, 

Who  melts,  who  moves, 
Who  woos  with  truth  and  lies: 
And  him  who  makes, 

Who  weaves  both  wild  and  wise: 

Who  sings,  who  soothes: 
And  him,  the  rude  surprise: 
And  him  who  waits 

With  obdurate  surmise: 
And  him,  the  golden  one 
Who  faints  and  flies. 
Tell  verse  and  viol, 

Savants,  swords  and  sighs, 
The  stride,  the  deed, 
The  splendour  of  replies: 

All  heavy  hopes, 
Designs  that  surge  and  rise, 

And  stalwart  ghosts 
That  violate  the  skies. 

[74] 


And  tell  your  heart 

That  neither  lives  nor  dies, 
That  I  am  dead  with  my  delicious  eyes, 


[75] 


BLACK  POET  TO  SILVER  POET 

Your  winged  singing  drops,  in  plumed  array, 
'Its  birds  that  feather,  fluting,  down  the  day, 
And  lift  to  leafy  loves, 
Their  high  and  sweet  incessant  silver  say: 
Birds,  deepening  at  dusk  to  nightingales, 
That  beat  the  doors  of  dark  with  soft  assails, 
And     tender     tunes     the     plaintive     moon     ap 
proves.  .  .  . 

But,  when  the  gray  sea  of  my  silence  moves, 
The  wounded  waves  with  sluggard  rollings  part 
To  let  out  some  dis-fathomed  monster's  head 
With  blind  and  streaming  eyes :     So  from  his  bed, 
Heaves  up  my  heavy  art. 


[76] 


WHOM  SINGEST  THOU? 

Thou  saidst, 

"Whom  singest  thou  with  that  ambiguous  lyre? 
Dost  thou   sing  me,   or  dost  thou  \siflg  the 

lyre?" 

I  smiled  and  sang: 
"I  sing  the  embraceless  spouse: 

Perhaps  I  sing  thy  hundred  thousand  thous." 
I  smiled  and  sang,  till,  leaning  in  surprise, 
I  saw  the  tears  well  in  thy  haughty  eyes. 


[77] 


SPLENDOUR 

He  said,   "How  can   I  meet  your  splendour, 
In  this  magnificence  of  my  losses, 
Bankruptcy  of  youth, 

Delinquency  in  beauty?" 
But  you,  in  strong  delight, 

Ran,  ran  and  fell  upon  him, 
Crying  out,  "O  Splendour!" 


[78] 


SOME  DISHONOURED  GARDEN 

Some  dishonoured  garden  be  my  place: 

Where  the  savage  grass, 
Shaggy  son  of  vagabond  disgrace, 

Sighs  his  rude  uAlas," 
Over  princely  flowers  all  discrowned, 

Poverties  embracing  on  the  ground; 
Bankrupt  lovers  hiding  breasted  heads 

In  their  beggared  beds. 

Hide  the  wronged  laughter  of  the  fool 

In  this  leafy  wrong: 
Drown  with  petals  in  the  pallid  pool 

My  Icarian  song. 
Ragged  roses  and  a  tattered  vine, 

Lean  renown  and  broken  bread  be  mine 
Since  thy  king's  fare  hath  so  wasted  me, 

And  I  starve  on  thee. 


[79] 


AGAMMEMNON 

More  bold  thou  art 

Than  that  Achaean  king,  the  Trojan's  dread, 
Who  took  the  crying  maid  of  Troy  to  bed ; 
With   iron  breast  held   down   that  haunted 

heart, 

Beneath   his   shoulder   bent  that   burning 
head. 


[80] 


HIS  STRANGENESS 

Is  he  a  lord,  my  love,  or  some  bright  beggared 

guest 

In  tatters  shaken  by  the  windy  blow, 
This    shape    I    dearly    know    and    do    not 

know.  .  .  . 

This  Protean  shape  that  changes  on  my  breast! 
No  tawny  nestler  now,  where  nests  this  black  de 
light; 

These  purple  locks  upleaping,  crows  in  snow, 
And  glooming  irids,  charged  with  heavy  night, 

Where  late  there  trembled  me 
A  golden  fleece  and  eyes  the  brothers  of  the  sea. 
Is  he  a  lord,  my  love,  or  does  a  shadow  hold 
The  place  of  one,  once  golden,  beggared  of  his 
gold? 


[81] 


HIS  BURDEN 

Weary  of  whiteness  and  pallor  of  gold 
On  tresses  of  northrrien  that  curl  in  the  cold; 
I  fled  the  austere, 
I  fled  the  blue  eye : 
And  journeying  far  with  a  star 
That  flamed  ever  fiercer,  revolted  from  fear, 

And   made  bold 

By  the  high  broken  bars  of  the  cold, 
Like  a  lion  leaped  in  the  sky. 

Longing  for  beauty  of  blackness,  with  deep 
Eyes  like  a  night  that  is  starless  for  sleep, 
The  night's  own  eyes  that  can  pardon 
For  softness,  nor  harden 
With  steel  of  implacable  soul: 
Sweet  flagrant,  the  reeler  in  sweet, 
The  dissolute  king  of  retreat, 
Lord  of  large  flowers, 
The  coloured  and  carnivaled  whole 
Of  honeyed  and  harvestless  hours; 
Lord  of  the  shadowy  lip  that  sings, 

Of  the  darkling  smile, 
Of  delicate  guileless  guile, 
King  of  all  kind,  caressed  and  careless  things. 

[8a] 


Searching  for  this,  long  search  I  found  you  after, 

Master  of  blackness  and  full  crowned  thereby: 
But  ah,  your  flowery  lip  in  laughter 

Was  like  all  broken  lutes  and  buds  that  die! 
Six  full  waves  of  wonder  drowned  me — seven, 

And  on  the  seventh  foamed  your  beauty  whole ; 
But,  like  an  angel  helled  in  highest  heaven, 

You  wept  with  bitter  burden  of  a  soul! 


[83] 


HIS  TREACHERY 


Then  coming  like  some  careful  one  that  loves  too 
high, 

You  bowed,  abasing  your  most  plumed  head, 
Pearling  humility  with  pride's  emblazonry, 

The  cloaked  gems,  hid  fire,  darkly  red : 
Making  a  wonder  of  imperial  lowliness, 

Of  kings  unkinged,  warriors  unspeared  and  sped. 
"Who  fears  me?"  said  your  proud  eye,  weaponless, 

"So  to  the  living  creep  the  humbled  dead. 
For  lack  of  you  has  made  me  dead."     She  heard, 

Bending  to  lift  you  like  a  beaten  bird, 
Love's     spoiled     pilgrim,     weeping     with     the 
cold.  .  .  . 

Sudden,  she  felt  you  terrible  with  gold! 


[84] 


HIS  TREACHERY,  TO  ANOTHER  TUNE 

II 

Who  was  he,  the  cheating  sweet, 
That  played  he  was  her  vassal, 

And  wept  the  whole  night  in  the  street 
Before  he  stormed   the  castle? 

You  it  was  that  did  this  shame, 

Love's  battered  beggar  when  you  came, 

Who  enter,  plumed,  with  iron  feet 
And  now,  so  flash  and  flame! 


HIS  BEAUTY 

When  first  she  saw  the  pillow  blazing  with  his 
head, 

She  cried  in  terror,  "Passion  now  is  dead! 
It  is  too  much:  desire  is  intercept, 

Such  beauty  puts  it  out!"  and  weeping  fled. 

Then  he  with  giant  laughter,  crowned  adept 
In  love,  like  twenty  moons  unleapt; 

"But  yours  is  not  too  much !"     His  voice,  the  swell 
And  bellow  of  a  brazen  bell. 


[86] 


HIS  LITTLENESS 

I  call  you  little  though  you  are  so  high, 
I  make  you  little  as  a  bird : 

Little  as  a  bird  to  nestle  in  a  breast 
Under  the  leafy  cover  of  a  robe : 

Not  too  far  under  for  that  sidelong  eye.  .  .  . 
The  wildernesses  eye  that  peeps  and  hides, 

There  where  you  press  on  mine  a  downy  heart- 
Ah,  me,  I  fear  to  make  you  little  as  a1  bird! 

I  fear  this  downy  traffic  with  a  bird! 
And  faint  to  call  you  little  who  are  high. 


[87] 


THE  MAKER'S  STEALTH 

You  have  grown  so  gentle,  now  you  have  your  fill, 
And  all  this  honey  on  your  lips  I  spill : 

I  who  loved  the  lion,  must  I  love  the  dove, 

Wings  on  my  breast,  where  burned  that  shaggy 
love: 

If  you  see  me  pale  in  terror  of  your  tears, 
So  the  maned  Samson  trembled  at  the  shears. 

Kiss  you  asleep — then  down  through  dreams  un 
sounded — 

Plunge  I  upon  another  you,  confounded, 
Drowned  in  sterner  wonder,  drink  more  dire  de 
light, 
And  play  with  hooded  strangeness  all  the  night! 


[88] 


THE  FLIGHT 

Tonight,  a  strangeness  came  upon  me : 

I,  the  staggering  sleeper, 

The  drouthy  kisser  of  sleep, 

I  wearied  of  sleeping: 

And  as  a  drunkard  rises  and  reels  from  the 

dark  place 

Where  he  lay  dreaming, 
His  locks  still  heavy  with  broken  wreaths  and 

the  spilth  of  wine, 

And  finds  himself,  weeping  with  daylight; 
So,  I  fled  from  you — 
Out  from  the  doorways — into  the  Awake. 


[89] 


YOU  SAW  ME  LOVE  HIM 

You  saw  me  love  him.  .  .  . 

Though  I  crept 

Under  leaves  to  where  he  slept: 

Though  my  stealthy  knees, 

Crawling  round  the  roots  of  trees, 

Hardly  drew  a  sigh 

From  the  flowers  softly  slain; 

Dying  without  any  pain, 

Like  forgotten  babes  that  swoon, 

Kissed  too  closely  by  the  moon. 

You  saw  me  love  him.  .  .  . 

Though  the  towering  night, 

Liege  of  lovers,  lifted  tall 

Builded  blackness,  wall  on  wall, 

Staggering  sight, 

Eyeless  donjons  dumb  and  stark, 

Blinded  parapets  of  dark, 

You  saw  me  love  him. 


[90] 


SO,  YOU  WOULD  NOT  FORGIVE 

ME.  .  .  . 

So,  you  would  not  forgive  me.  .  .  . 

And  your  velvet  sigh, 

Averted  from  this  bitter-fruited  I, 

Fell  like  a  plume  behind  you  as  you  went; 

While,  backward  sent, 

The  wounded  condor's  look 

JBurned  on  the  one  forsook, 

[Beneath  your  spacious  eye's  extinguished  sweet, 

With  sootheless  deserts  of  extreme  defeat. 

[But  I,  the  soothed  of  monsters,  lulled  by  groans, 
Lie  well,  consoled  of  vultures,  nursed  of  stones. 


[91] 


SICK  WITH  HEAVEN 

1  said,  "Now,  sick  with  heaven,  I  turn  my  face 
Of  Lucifer  from  this  too  lovely  place; 

'Twas  here  I  wept  for  giants ;  and  the  deep 
Sighing  of  gods,  that  in  proud  secret  weep 

With  loneliness  of  kingly  state  forlorn: 

And  for  great  lovers  by  crowned  sorrow  torn 

Of  desperate  loveliness, 
And  hard,  too  golden  stress 

Of  'crusted  robes,  whose  jeweled  weavings,  worn 
With  cruel  weight  on  breasts  too  much  embraced, 

So  bruise  with  gems  that  white,  imperial  haste. 

Let  me  go  bare, 

I  cried,  of  this  too  heavy  fair, 
And  all  this  crested  wealth  of  gilded  care. 

If  these  rich  tears  shall  sting  that  kissed  smile, 
Let  me  be  he  who  now  shall  starve  a  while! 


[92] 


NORWAY 

I.    THE  MAGICAL  HEARTS 

Three  magical  hearts  of  Norge 

Came  over  the  world  in  ships, 

And  brought  the  night-suns  of  their  eyes, 

The  liquid  of  their  lips; 

They  brought  their  sea-souls  wildly  wise, 

That  Viking  dreams  enclose, 

And  the  flowing  flame  of  the  northern  skies 

To  redden  a  western  rose; 

The  magical  hearts  of  Norge. 

And  all  the  hearts  were  sea-hearts, 
Wide  as  worlds  are  wide, 
Enchanted  well  with  olden  tales  and  tunes, 
And  floods  of  stars  that  rode  along  the  tide, 
And  fleets  of  full-rigged  moons. 

And  one  was  like  the  roaring  of  the  wave 
That  drives  upon  the  rock  with  heavy  urge, 
The  master-player  playing  to  the  brave, 
The  music  and  the  madness  of  the  surge. 

[93] 


And  all  the  hearts  were  sea-hearts,  beating  fiercely 

free, 

And  beautiful  as  shapes  that  beckon  us  in  sleep, 
And  kind  as  children,  kissing  playfully: 
And  one  was  like  the  long  enquiry  of  the  deep, 
With  princely  will  prevailing, 
A-search  for  all  the  secret  shores  there  be, 
And  one  was  like  a  golden  sea-bird  sailing, 
Or  the  silver  singing  of  the  sea. 

Three  magical  hearts  of  Norge 

Came  over  the  old  sea-track, 

Where  their  helmed  fathers  went  before, 

And  took  strange  plunder  back: 

But  now  they  take,  in  giving  more, 

A  kingly  trade  disclose; 

Three  magical  hearts  of  Norge 

For  the  single  heart  of  a  Rose. 


[94] 


II.    THREE 


We  were  loved,  you  and  I, 
We  were  loved  by  the  Three: 
And  the  cup  was  filled  high, 
We  were  loved,  you  and  I : 
Though  we  dwindle  and  die, 
Though  we  falter  and  flee, 
We  were  loved  you  and  I, 
We  were  loved  by  the  Three! 


"Come  back  and  kiss  us  all  once  more!" 

Cried  the  Prince: 

And  we,  pausing  in  the  door, 

Returned  again — and  since, 

We  are  not  as  we  were  before. 

For  we  are  roses,  roses  now, 
Where  the  wild  bee  sighs  and  sips, 
And  each  rose  upon  her  bough 
Has  three  shadows  on  her  lips: 

[95] 


And  each  rose-heart  rosily 
Trembles  with  the  lips  of  three. 
And  we  are  roses,  roses  now, 
Who  only  women  were  before, 
And  three  winds  that  shake  the  bough, 
Cry,  "Come  and  kiss  us  all  once  more!" 


[96] 


III.     SEA-COMER 
Birger 

Who  was  he 

That  came  from  the  sea, 

With  the  crested  head 

Of  an  eagle  in  the  red 

Of  the  sun? 

Who  was  the  kingly  one 

With  such  a  grace 

In  his  face? 

Who  was  so  kind, 

With  the  mind 

That  stabbed  like  a  sword ; 

And  the  word 

Like  a  preying  bird; 

Whose  streaming  hand 

Spilled  gifts  like  sand; 

Whose  pain  was  the  rain, 

Whose  mirth  was  an  earth; 

Whose  eye 

Was  a  sky? 

Who  was  as  proud 

As  the  trumpet  crying  loud, 

[97] 


As  the  flying  ship? 

Who  had  the  curling  lip 

That  made 

The  lover's  heart  afraid? 

Who  was  he 

That  returned  to  the  sea? 


[98] 


IV.    THE  FAIRY  CHILD 
To  Malta 

There  was  a  woman  once 
And  she  had  a  fairy  child; 
It  was  delicately  wild, 
And  it  had  a  different  play 
And  a  different  delight; 
It  was  too  silver  for  the  day, 
Too  golden  for  the  night. 

It  was  light 

As  a  leaf  along  the  floor, 

Or  a  wind  in  the  door, 

Or  the  shadow  on  the  stair, 

That  might  not  be  there. 

When  she  held  it  on  her  knee, 
She  wore  her  silken  gloves, 
As  one,  all  carefully, 
Holding  doves. 

When  she  combed  its  hair, 
Golden  silk, 

[99] 


She  was  faint  with  fairy  care, 
Pale  as  milk. 

When  she  spoke  she  swooned, 
Though  she  smiled, 
For  fear  a  word  would  wound 
Such  a  golden  child. 

When  she  put  it  into  bed, 
The  bed  began  to  pray, 
For  fear  that  such  a  golden  head 
Might  fade  before  the  day. 

But  when  she  left  the  praying  bed, 
The  fairy  child  burned  bright; 
Its  little  brothers  came,  'tis  said, 
To  play  with  it  all  night. 

But  when  it  made  its  little  words, 
In  tunes  that  lisp  and  fall, 
The  tongue  that  spoke  like  silver  birds 
Was  not  a  child's  at  all. 

There  was  a  woman  once 
And  she  had  a  fairy  child ; 
It  was  delicately  wild 
And  it  left  a  fairy  grief, 
And  fairy  lack  beyond  belief. 

For  she  gave  it  to  a  prince 
Because  he  was  so  fair, 
[100] 


And  ne'er  before,  or  since, 
Was  there  such  a1  golden  pair. 
And  he  carried  it  away 
With  the  far  wave's  foamy  flight; 
It  was  too  silver  for  the  day, 
Too  golden  for  the  night. 


[101] 


V.     MATTA  JOURNEYING  AMONG 
FJORDS 

She  journeyed  like  a  flower 

Borne  along  the  breeze, 
The  rocks  gave  up  their  moaning 

As  she  passed  their  knees. 

The  pines  gave  up  their  sighing, 
The  mountains  leaned  to  gaze 

At  such  a  silky  traveller 
Going  down  their  ways. 

The  tarns  climbed  up  their  edges, 

Hiding  all  their  Fears; 
To  see  the  flying  petals 

The  Nokken  dried  his  tears. 

The  eagle  stooped  to  listen, 

The  sun  forgot  the  hour, 
The  Terrors  ceased  their  trembling 

When  she  journeyed  like  a  flower. 

And  we  who  went  beside  her 

With  her  laughing  eye, 
Remembering  her  perfume 

Forgot  to  say  goodbye. 

[102] 


VI.    THE  STAG 

The  stag  that  owned  the  mountains  and  the  tarns 
Gave  us  his  royal  right  in  each  abyss ; 
He  gave  it  like  a  bright  and  bitter  kiss, 

With  princely  bowing  of  his  towered  horns. 

He  stilled  for  us  his  tarns  that  nursed  the  night, 
He  calmed  his  hurrying  mountains,  row  on  row, 
Bucked  out  with  flying  bucks  that  spurned  the 
snow, 

And  seagulled  out  with  seagulls,  flight  on  flight. 

He  called  his  grieving  pines  in  serried  spears, 
He  called  his  sudden  birches  and  his  birds, 
He  called  his  echoes  for  their  fainting  words, 

And  cataracts  that  fell  in  floods  of  tears. 

He  wooed  us  with  his  winds  and  with  his  flowers, 
Implored  us  with  his  shadows  and  his  mist.  .  .  . 
And  all  that  follows  of  the  dream  we  kissed 

Is  crying  of  that  wounded  stag  of  ours. 


VII.    EARTH 

I  have  been  with  the  ships ; 

I  come  with  the  salt  on  my  lips, 

Will  you  take  me  again? 
I  have  sunk,  I  have  ceased, 
<By  the  surging  seducer  released — 

Will  you  take  me  again? 
Deliver  your  breast 
To  the  sea-wounded  guest — 

Brown,  brown! 
Let  me  in — let  me  down ! 
Throbless  and  safe  from  the  blue, 

Safe  from  the  sorrow  and  sound; 
Let  me  be  trampled  with  ground — 
Let  me  be  thrust  upon  you! 

Will  you  take  me  again? 
Lick  off  the  brine  from  my  face, 
Ground-winds  that  pause  and  that  pace 
In  the  grass ! 
Pass,  pass, 
Torment  and  tigers  of  sea! 

Give  me  a  tree ! 
Give  me  a  cover,  a  cloak! 
Make  room  for  the  beaten,  the  broke! 
[104] 


Make  a  bed  for  the  traitor  to  weep. 

I  forgive  you  and  sleep. 
I  have  been  with  the  ships, 
I  come  with  the  salt  on  my  lips. 

Will  you  take  me  again? 


FOUR  POEMS  TO  KALLISTA 

I.     SILK 

When  all  the  forge-fires  of  the  day  expire, 
I  put  on  you,  my  love,  as  silk  attire; 

I  make  me  fair  with  you,  my  silk,  and  wear 
The  smile  you  give  my  lips  to  make  me  fair. 

I  don  you  as  a  garment,  deep  impearled, 

To  lord  it  in  the  world; 
And  trail  you  for  the  stars  that  all  look  down 

With  silver  staring,  paled  with  my  renown 
And  starry  gleam  of  me. 

And  then,  ah  then,  where  is  my  penury? 
Not  mine  the  ragged  heart  that  is  for  hire! 

I  put  on  you,  my  love,  as  silk  attire. 


II.    LIFT  UP  YOUR  HANDS 

Lift  up  your  hands.  .  .  . 

And  let  me  look  at  those  two  hearts,  your  palms : 
Then,  give  me  leave  to  lay  these  kisses  in, 
First,  round  the  rims  where  the  warm  nests  begin, 
And  now,  deep,  deep,  among  the  blooms  and  balms. 

I  take  my  heart.  .  .  . 

So,  loosening  at  last,  its  ancient  bands.  .  .  . 
Now,  make  of  those  two  kissed  palms  a  breast.  .  .  . 
And  let  me  lay  this  iron  babe  to  rest: 
But  no — what  throes  between  your  bruised  hands! 


III.    THE  BANQUET 

I  make  a  banquet  of  you 

And  you  cannot  say  me  nay : 
So,  I  spread  you  in  the  evening, 
And  drink  away  the  day. 

How  dazzling  is  the  damask! 

And,  cresting  from  the  cask, 
How  flashing  is  the  heady  wave 

That  purples  in  the  flask! 

And  how  the  lonely  feaster, 
As  he  brims  the  flagon  up, 

Laughing  underneath  his  garland, 
Leans  his  lip  upon  the  cup! 

Oh,  is  there  any  ear,  now, 

So  delicate  and  vain, 
To  listen  if  the  wine  should  sigh, 

Or  if  the  bread  complain? 


[108] 


IV.  I  WOULD  NOT  HAVE  YOU 
SEE  ME 

I  would  not  have  you  see  me  sobbing  out, 

When  my  low  candle  shakes  into  the  blast, 
And  all  my  armoured  prides  are  put  to  rout; 

Nor  that  wild  eye  be  on  you  at  the  last. 
Great  love,  be  you  not  leaning  there  to  meet 

The  obliterating  fall  of  that  defeat; 
Lest,  made  too  clear,  in  ways,  the  rude  duress 

Should  violate  your  sovereign  tenderness. 

Be  far  away,  and  live  in  safer  doubt, 
Unknowing  if  I  like  a  stranger  passed; 

Too  strange  for  courtesies  of  love's  farewell. 
Be  far  away,  lest  such  a  shame  befell 

Me,  in  dying,  as  that  you  should  call, 
And  clownish  I  not  answer  you  at  all. 


[109] 


AND  NOW  IT  SEEMED  TO  ME 

And  now,  it  seemed  to  me 

My  life  was  but  a  drowse, 

Where  thought  stole  dubiously 

As  moonlight  under  boughs 

In  shadows  of  a  shaken  dance, 

Lustering  what  was,  perchance, 

With  what  was  not; 

While  many  a  darkling  spot 

Was  caverned  doubt, 

Where  question,  like  a  candle,  is  put  out. 

I  dreamed  that  I  was  cold; 

Or  that  the  summer  slew 

The  spring  with  fangs  of  gold ; 

Or  that  the  forest  drew 

A  fever  from  the  autumn  and  wa's  burned, 

I  thought  I  turned 

This  way  and  that  with  thirst 

Of  this  and  that,  and  dreamed 

Of  best  and  worst; 

And  seemed, 

Oh,  most  imponderable  seeming! 

To  love  in  dreaming. 

[no] 


THE  THIEF 

"Where  did  you  go  while  I  slept?"  I  cried, 

To  my  citizens,  one,  two,  three. 
"I  waked  but  once,"  the  Heart  replied, 
"And  wept  and  turned  on  my  other  side 

And  again  slept  patiently." 

"And  thou,  my  wanton  one  and  wild, 

Didst  thou  stir  before  the  lark?" 
Said  the  Tongue,  "I  lay  like  the  unborn  child, 
Deedless  and  dumb  and  dark-beguiled 

And  confounded  with  the  dark." 

"And  thou,  the  tameless,  that  dost  lie 

"Beneath  the  folded  cover?" 
"I  slept,"  the  Body  made  reply, 
"Forgot  the  cold,  forgot  the  cry 

For  the  unremembered  lover." 

"But  who  went  forth,  who  stole  away 

Of  my  citizens  three  and  four? 
Who  creeped  out  while  asleep  I  lay, 
And  rode  the  dark  till  the  dawn  of  day, 

Though  he  never  opened  door?" 


"The  Thief  went  out,  the  Thief  was  the  one!" 

Cried  the  citizens  all  within. 
"He  laughed  in  the  worlds  where  there  is  no  sun, 
And  went  to  a  place  where  place  is  none, 

And  he  sinned  a  deadly  sin!" 


[112] 


INDIAN  SONG 

See  how  you  wake  again,  the  Hidden! 

Ah,  ah,  ah! 
Two  little  breasts  of  man  too  poor  for  kissing! 

No  dreams  of  any  milk  at  all! 
Sweet  poverty — I  lay  there 
Two  pomegranates  heavy  with  their  wine. 
See  how  you  wake  again  the  Hidden! 

Ah,  ah,  ah! 

Shape  beneath  the  leaves, 
Crying  in  the  grass  so, 
Calling  for  my  dead  thoughts! 
Ah,  ah,  ah! 


["3] 


LEE 

(A  Portrait) 

Darkling  eye  and  golden  hair, 
Velvet  captive  of  a  long  despair; 
Lonely  heart  and  Yorick's  tongue, 
Gay  and  valiant,  and  forever  young; 
Soul  that  weaves  a  magic  like  the  moon, 
Soul  that  voyages — a  vanished  tune! 

Mimic,  dancer,  cavalier, 

Silky  hand  the  proud  horse  loves  to  fear; 

Sailor  and  adventurer; 

Dark  eyed  peoples  look  and  long  for  her, 

And  the  Spaniard  claims  her  for  his  own; 

She  who  lingers,  loves,  and  goes  alone. 

Tall  as  the  Giralda  and  as  fair, 

Darkling  eye  and  golden  hair! 

Golden  hair  and  darkling  eye, 
Where  the  golden  sorrows  ever  lie, 
Velvet  prisoners  they  are,  and  wild ; 
One,  a  woman  weeping  for  a  child, 
(Her  own  childhood  lost  among  the  deeps,) 
["4] 


One,  a  child  that  for  a  woman  weeps, 
One,  a  wide  desire  that  never  sleeps. 

Golden  hair  and  silken  knee, 

It  is  wide,  the  longing  for  the  sea1! 

Darkling  eye  and  petal  lips, 

Wide  the  windy  longing  for  the  ships! 

Painter's  hand  and  poet's  heart, 

Wide  the  cloudy  hunger  for  an  Art! 

Sigh  that  smiles  and  smile  that  is  a  sigh; 

Golden  hair  and  darkling  eye! 


05] 


MANUEL'S  BEDS 

Six  white  beds  in  a  row, 
Six  fairs  that  lie  thereon. 
(Two  beds  that  are  folded  and  gone!) 
Four  sisters  lying  pale; 

Each  young  breast  bears  a  rose, 
Hid  with  the  virgin's  veil 

That  no  wild  winds  disclose. 
Their  eyes  the  nights  desire, 

Night  wreathes  each  viney  head 

Where  pillowed  curls  are  spread.  . 
White  prey  of  white-hot  fire, 

One  sister  burns  in  bed. 

Two  brothers  lie,  on  guard, 
One  by  bright  beauty  starred : 
(For  two,  their  far  new  beds  are  hard!) 
He  leans,  awake,  and  hears 

The  burning  sister's  tears 
And  little  wounded  words, 

Until  they  come  no  more. 
He  keeps  four  singing  birds 

For  his  sisters  four. 

[116] 


RICHARD'S  HOUSE 

'Twas  in  a  woody  place  the  wonder  went, 
A  drunken  house  with  flowers  and  leaves  besprent, 
A  drunken  singing  house  in  sweet  carouse, 
That  reeled  among  the  boughs. 

I  never  saw  so  mad  a  house  before; 

I  ran  and  leaped  me  through  the  running  door; 

I  leaped  and  joined  me  to  the  radiance 

Of  lovely  mad  ones  all  that  dwell  therein; 

Of  one  half  boy,  half  maid,  in  desperate  dance, 

And  one  whose  lips  let  out  a  silver  din, 

The  poet's  necromance. 

And  one  was  like  a  shaft  of  ivory, 

Flushed  faintly  where  a  rose  had  left  a  stain, 

And  fair  to  see, 

Whose  soul  was  music  smiling  in  its  pain. 

And  one,  majestic,  leaned  within  the  door 

With  deep,  deep  eyes,  who  heard  the  lutes  no  more. 

And  ah,  the  great  mad  grandmother  was  there! 
The  guilty  one  that  made  old  age  too  fair, 
That  made  youth-lovers  turn  in  love  with  snow, 

["7] 


Fain  for  lost  gardens  where  lost  roses  grow. 
Her  unrepentant  youth  hung  on  the  cross 
Of  her  triumphant  ancientry, 
And  his  strong  laughter  at  his  lovely  loss 
Drew  blossoms  from  the  tree. 

Oh,  mad  grandmother,  did  I  dream  you  quite, 
Oh,  ivory  shaft,  and  you,  half  boy,  half  maid? 
Or  shall  I  find  you  on  a  summer  night 
Where  reels  the  drunken  moon  through  shaken 

shade 

To  dance  with  that  mad  house  to  silver  din, 
Inebriate  of  the  poet's  flute  within? 


[118] 


THE  TWO  DESPAIRS 
To  A.  A.  C.  O  W 

Your  despair  and  my  despair 

Went  out  to  walk  and  take  the  air: 

They  went  to  walk,  and  they  were  pale 

As  moons  that  rainy  winds  enveil, 

And  stilly  wept  into  their  hair, 

Your  despair  and  my  despair! 

They  walked  until  the  death  of  night, 

Through  many  a  misty  world  estranged, 

When  they  came  back  their  names  were  changed, 

We  could  not  tell  them  from  delight. 


THE  DESERT-DWELLER  SAID 


You  who  crowned  me  for  beauty  in  the  market 
place, 

You  leave  me  alone  at  last. 

At  last,  you  leave  me  alone  with  my  deformity; 
And  I  am  as  one  who  goes  into  his  own  house, 

Closing  the  door  behind  him. 


II 


I  smile  at  last — being  alone, 
And  I  release  my  sighing. 
For  I  love  my  hatred  of  myself  more  than  I  love 

your  love  of  me, 
And   I  love  my  own  disdain  more  than  I  love 

your  worship, 
And  I  love  my  paleness  more  than  you  love  my 

vermilion, 
And    my    dereliction    more    than   you    love    my 

honours, 
And  my  terror  more  than  you  love  my  valour, 

[120] 


And  my  doubt  more  than  your  faith  in  me, 
And  my  despair  more  than  your  hope  in  me, 
And  my  defeat  more  than  my  triumph  before  you, 
And  my  disgrace  more  than  your  woven  wreaths. 


[121] 


CONSCIOUSNESS 

Then  as  I  watched,  with  lost  soul  through  lost 

eyes, 

I  saw,  between  the  windy  earths  and  skies, 
The  nothingness  take  form  with  hollow  sighs; 
Until,  at  last, 
A  face  was  there,  with  consciousness  aghast! 

Two  shapes  beside  the  soundless  staring  hung; 

One  seemed  the  Lust-of-being,  that  gave  tongue 

And  made  advance 

With  hoofed  dance; 

And  one,  the  very  Wound-of-being,  nursed 

His  trapped  heart  in  its  shaken  cage  accursed. 


[122] 


• 


WHY  HAVE  YOU  TURNED  AWAY  FROM 
ME,  MY  PRIDE? 

Why  have  you  turned  away  from  me,  my  Pride? 

What  shall  I  do  without  my  splendour? 

If  I  am  to  be  humbled, 

I  who  am  not  used  to  half  things, 

I  must  have  excess  of  humbling; 

The  surface  of  the  earth  is  not  low  enough  for  me, 

I  must  be  lower; 

Like  a  fierce  stone  struck  from  heaven, 

I  must  pierce  to  my  lowness! 

I  must  be  inearthed. 


NOW,  MY  LYRE 

Now,  my  lyre  again,  again! 
Come  back  my  coloured  song! 
Sullen  singer  dumb  with  rain, 
Bird  belated  long! 
Bird  that  hid  a  bruised  beak 
Through  broken-hearted  dark, 
It  is  morning,  swell  and  speak, 
Lift,  my  lark! 

For  we  who  died  while  it  was  night, 

Lift  up  a  louder  cry; 

And  stone-blind  eyes  that  come  to  light 

Sigh  out  a  mighty  sigh. 

The  tongues  that  were  as  still  as  stone 

Like  broken  rivers  run, 

And  stricken  birds  make  golden  moan 

That  shakes  the  brazen  sun : 

While  Lazarus,  proud  with  new  desire, 

Heaps  Death  with  Life's  disdain, 

And  fills  his  saved  song  of  fire 

With  fury  of  the  slain. 


IS  IT  MY  LAUGHTER? 

Is  it  my  Laughter? 
Is  it  my  Laughter  that  comes  here, 
This  stranger  bending  in  the  rain? 
How  unfamiliar  the  face  is, 

This  divine  harlequin-face, 
Wet  with   rain! 

Who  called  you,  Forgotten? 
Who  called  you,  Mountebank,  Lost  one? 

My  sorrow,  you  say? 


HIS  DISTANCE 

Ah,  he  went  away  too  far! 

Farther  than  lost  leaves  and  lovers  are! 

With  loss  of  singing  lips, 

Greater  than  the  loss  of  golden  ships, 
Steeper  than  the  losing  of  a  star — 

He  went  away  too  far. 

Farther  than  the  farthest  flute, 
Farther  than  the  belling  of  his  lute 

And  bright  Balboan  words; 

Fleeter  than  the  nest  can  call  the  birds, 
Fainter  than  the  fall  of  winds  that  mute, 

And  farther  than  a  flute. 


THE  RECOVERY 

I  led  him  back  from  hell's  disgrace, 
But  held  my  eyes  the  while; 

I  took  the  hell-cloth  from  his  face, 
But  turned  me  lest  he  smile. 

I  sealed  my  eyes,  yet  feared  that  he 
Would  smile  there  in  the  gloom, 

For  even  sealed  eyes  must  see 
That  wonder — and  their  doom. 

The  withered  garland  from  his  crest 
With  blind  hands  I  unbound; 

I  shook  to  feel  his  breathing  breast, 
And  wept  upon  the  ground. 

I  took  the  windings  from  his  hands, 

The  death-vest  off  I  took, 
And  loosed  the  long,  long  linen  bands, 

But  never  dared  to  look. 

I  shook  the  hell-damp  from  his  hair, 

And  turned  me,  not  to  see 
What  followed  pale  behind  me  there, 

The  boy-Eurydice. 


LIPS  AND  EYES 

The  little  boys  that  are  your  smiles 

Go  quaintly  in  and  out, 
With  witty  plays  and  antic  wiles 

Of  goatlings  all  about. 

The  penitents  that  are  your  eyes, 
Each  with  his  prayer  appears, 

And  care  too  cursed  for  any  cries, 
And  lovely  ghosts  of  tears. 

Ah,  those  that  play  with  quirk  and  quip. 

And  these  that  daily  die! 
Repentless  urchins  of  the  lip, 

And  culprits  of  the  eye. 


TO  A  GREAT  PRAISING  POET 

O,  fruiting  poet  golden  with  your  fruit, 

I,  mute, 

And  leaning  in  my  tunic's  fold, 
Gather  the  downfall  of  your  leafy  lute. 

Heavy  to  hold, 
Ah,  heavy  to  hold, 
This  fallen  weight  of  fruited  gold! 

She  falters  'neath  the  Olympian  ornament, 

Who  treads  with  golden  load 
(Where  once  she  trod 

Uncrowned  and  inillustrious  went), 
Like  her  of  Argos  golded  of  the  god. 

Ah,  poet  august,  in  this  my  honoured  hour, 
Drenched  in  your  spreading  power 

And  radiant  rain  of  you, 
My  singing  lifts  beneath  the  gleaming  shower, 
And  Perseus  stirs  anew. 


RETURN 


When  I  went  back  there 

I  was  as  cautious  as  a  dead  man. 

I  passed  the  palm  trees  with  care, 

Not  looking  too  intently, 

For  fear  of  spilling  my  heart  too  soon. 

And  I  waited  long  before  daring  the  house, 
The  coward  of  delight. 

But  the  house  was  there 

Still  trembling; 

The  sea  still  leaned  listening  up  the  walls, 

Below  the  alert 

.  ,  v 

Of  the  windows 

And  in  the  room.  .  .  . 

The  perfect  grief  was  waiting. 


II 


When  I  went  back 
To  take  leave  of  you  again, 


You, were  still  sitting  there; 
But  you  had  the  look 
Of  a  painted  king 
That  has  been  gone  a  thousand  years, 


WAR 

I.    WAR 

Escape  thee — 

The  knowing — the  sight! 
The  red  on  thy  dress!     The  bright, 

The  terrible  brightness  of  red 
On  thy  garment  that  steams, 
Thy  garment  the  sun  cannot  dry; 
The  thing  in  thy  hand  that  streams 

Like  the  beak  of  a  vulture  fed, 
The  wound  of  thine  eye, 

Thine  inconsolable  lip, 
Thy  scutcheon  of  scarlet,  thy  feet 
That  drip.  .  .  . 

I  hide  me! 

In  front  of  my  eyes 
I  draw  down  the  scarves  of  the  skies. 

I  heave  up  the  mountains  and  hold 
Their  shoulders  between. 

I  lift  up  the  sea  for  a  screen. 
I  hide  me  in  purple  and  gold 

Of  singing.     I  deaf  me  with  lyres. 


I  crouch  with  the  curled,  the  sires 

Of  singing,  the  pipers  that  smile; 

I  hide  me  with  glozing,  with  guile, 

With  laughter,  and  sighing  and  sleeping, 

With  feasting  and  fast, 
With  wine  and  with  weeping. 
With  groaning  of  labour  and  love, 

With  anvil  and  violin. 

But  ever,  at  last, 
Thou  partest  the  wall  where  he  lies, 

(In  sleep,  or  sobbing,  or  song,) 
The  hider;  and  lookest  in.  ... 
With  thine  ensanguined  eyes — 

With  lethal  looks  and  long. 


II.    I  LEFT  MY  PIPES 

"And  I  will  slay,  and  I'll  be  slain, 

If  needs  must  be  to  keep 
The  happy  'woods  for  dreamers  fain 

Where  fauns  and  dryads  sleep." 

I  left  my  pipes  and  pipers  fair, 

Farewelled  each  leafy  wight; 
And  fierce  upon  the  foemen  there, 

I  drove  into  the  fight. 

I  thrust  one  through  his  spreading  breast, 

I  broke  one  at  the  knee, 
I  clove  another's  curling  crest 

And  throat  of  ivory. 

One  died  in  weeping,  like  a  child, 

One  like  a  stag  that  cries, 
And  one  with  looks  so  brightly  wild, 

Was  like  a  god  that  dies. 

Mine  was  the  battle,  and  by  me 
Were  saved  my  grove  and  plain: 

I  turned  me  once  about  to  see 
The  faces  of  my  slain. 

[134] 


Oh,  golden  fall  that  flowered  the  lawns! 

Oh,  honied  mouths  that  bled! 
They  were  the  faces  of  my  fauns, 

And  dryads,  that  were  dead. 


[135] 


III.    THE  DEAD  MEN  FALL 

And  all  day  long  I  cannot  see 

The  day,  nor  be  consoled, 
For  strange  things  falling  on  my  heart 

That  make  my  heart  cold. 

Like  leaden  leaves  that  fall  and  fall 
From  a  strange  and  stricken  tree, 

The  dead  leaves  falling  on  my  heart, 
That  weigh  heavily. 

My  heart  that  was  as  red  as  gold, 

It  shone  at  dead  of  night, 
The  dead  men  falling  on  my  heart 

Have  turned  my  heart  white! 

O,  pale,  pale  heart  be  paler  still 

And  beat  no  more  at  all, 
Where  heavy,  heavy,  one  by  one, 

The  dead  men  fall. 


IV.    ANOTHER  SPRING 

Another  Spring! 

Where  no  birds  sing, 

Nor  any  newborn  thing 
Makes  downy  curling  in  the  nest; 

No  leaf  to  heal  the  trodden  crest 

Of  the  hill.     No  wing. 
Oh,  fool  of  Spring! 

Freeze,  freeze, 

You  blasted  trees 
That  shall  not  wake  to  any  breeze, 

Nor  honied  sigh 
Of  passing  butterfly. 

Another  Spring! 

'Neath  the  relenting  suns, 

Only  the  long  guns, 
Wolves  of  winter,  gore  her  grace, 

Defile  the  virgin's  face, 
All  unredressed, 

And  spit  on  flowers  of  her  breast. 

Another  Spring! 

I,  bleeding  in  the  ditch, 

[137] 


Behold  a  lean,  bereaven  bitch 
Come  whimpering. 
Another  Spring! 


V.    TO  MATTHEW  ARNOLD,  1917 

Tis  well  you  went  away  and  closed  the  gate, 

Taking  your  fine,  your  sad,  your  sweet,  your 

light, 
With  that  long,  delicate  lip  and  passionate, 

(Before  this  night. 
Did  you  divine,  and  did  you  fear  to  lose 

The  pace  long-vestured  and  the  priestly  song, 
And  so  went  softly  lest  the  cries  confuse, 

Or  wounds  should  make  you  wrong? 


[139] 


VI.    TO  A  POET  RETURNING 
FROM  CHINA,  TO  THE  WAR 

Oh,  recovered,  oh  sweet! 
Come  with  the  far,  far  feet, 

Out  of  the  far, 
Heavy  with  gold  as  you  are, 

Heavy  with  danger, 
Burdened  with  beauty  of  f  arness, 
With  fair  that  is  stranger 
Than  fear. 

Oh,  recovered,  oh  sweet! 
Strange  is  the  dust  on  your  feet, 
(Let  the  far  be  near, 
Though  we  are  afraid!) 
Dust  of  topaz  and  jade 

Of  golden  gods  that  caress 
From  the  dust,  appeased  and  wise. 

There  is  gold  on  your  dress, 
There  is  gold  in  your  golden  eyes ; 
The  averted  eyes  that  lament 
From  our  breasts  for  the  way  you  went; 
That  gaze  o'er  the  shoulder  and  live 
In  desperate  wonder  withdrawn, 
In  the  glittering  gone : 
[140] 


That  ever  look  back  and  burn 

From  the  cruel  garland  we  give — 
The  ruinous  rose  of  return. 


VII.    WAR-WIFE 

Ah,  he  is  young  who  lords  it  over  me! 

And  tall  and  fair, 

A  gallant  sight  to  see; 

And  all  his  hair 

Ferns  wreathingly, 

And  he  is  young  who  lords  it  over  me. 

Bring  me  a  ship 

That  I  may  take  the  sea, 

And  find  again 

The  difficult,  sweet  underlip 

That  speaks  with  pretty  pain, 

Like  youngest  birds  there  be. 

Ah,  he  is  young  who  lords  it  over  me! 

And  sternly  great 
In  harnessed  bravery; 
He  walks  in  warrior's  state, 
With  girded  waist, 
Alas,  no  more  embraced 
Save  by  the  sword-belt  heavily, 
And  leather  to  the  knee, 
Though  he  is  young  who  lords  "it  all  over 
me! 


And  strange  and  sad 
E'en  in  his  laughter  he; 
For  fate  that  falls  so  mad 
On  many  a  bridal  lad 
Has  used  him  fatefully. 

The  leveling  like  a  bee 

That  winds  tear  from  the  flower, 

Fades  farther,  hour  by  hour, 

Is  taken  by  the  sea ; 

Ah,  he  is  lost  who  lords  it  over  me! 


[143] 


VIII.    THE  ROADS 

All  the  roads  lead  back  to  France, 

Where  young  men  used  to  go  to  dance ; 

But  now,  they  go  in  other  wise, 
There  is  no  dancing  in  their  eyes. 

All  the  roads  lead  back  to  France, 

Where  young  men  used  to  find  Romance: 

Today,  a  stranger  face  she  shows 
And  wears  another,  darker  rose. 

To  France,  where  young  men  went  to  school, 
To  France  where  young  men  played  the  fool. 

Their  young  eyes  look  another  way, 
They  will  not  play  the  fool  today. 

They  will  not  play,  nor  take  their  books, 
Nor  question  much  a  maiden's  looks ; 

And  where  they  laughed,  so,  as  they  went, 
Their  laughter  will  be  different. 

Their  singing  will  not  sound  the  same, 
Their  hope  will  wear  a  sterner  name, 


For  gentle  lads  as  they  advance 
Are  fearful  on  the  roads  to  France. 

And  fearful  are  the  young,  young  eyes 
That  war  shall  make  so  fiercely  wise ; 

When  lads  shall  such  a  lore  attain, 
They  will  not  play  at  games  again. 

The  flowery  roads  that  lead  to  France 
Are  filled  with  pomp  and  circumstance; 

For  as  they  go  along  this  track, 
They  meet  young  dead  men  coming  back, 

All  going  home  on  windy  feet; 

They  do  not  greet  them  when  they  meet, 
They  do  not  greet,  they  do  not  glance 

At  dead  men  in  the  roads  to  France. 

They  do  not  tremble  as  they  go, 

Life's  flower  to  the  dream  they  throw; 

Youth's  lily  turned  to  be  a  lance, 

When  all  the  roads  lead  back  to  France. 


IX.    WHEN  THE  DEAD  MEN  DIE 

In  a  world  of  battlefields  there  came 
Strange  things  abroad  by  night, 

For  the  dead  they  have  but  little  shame 
When  their  hearts  are  turned  to  white. 

And  we  who  war,  and  wake  to  sigh, 

Are  apt  to  hear  the  slain, 
Whose  dead  hearts  go  abroad  and  cry 

Not  to  be  killed  again. 

For  they  are  now  in  Jacques  and  John, 

Hans,  Beppo,  and  the  rest; 
Their  broken  hearts  are  beating  on 

Inside  each  breaking  breast. 

Their  murdered  hearts  they  make  a  moan 
For  the  deaths  they  died  before, 

And  shattered  soul  with  shattered  bone 
Doth  dread  to  die  once  more. 

For  many  deaths  their  moan  is  made 
When  the  mortal  charges  start; 

It  is  hard  to  leap  the  escalade 
And  carry  a  dead  man's  heart! 


.Remember,  men  of  guns  and  rhymes, 

And  kings  who  kill  iso  fast, 
That  men  you  kill  too  many  times 

May  be  too  dead  at  last; 

That  hearts  may  be  too  dead  at  length 

To  beat  again  and  cry, 
And  kings  may  call  in  vain  for  strength 

When  the  dead  men  die. 


SOFT  SONG 

After  the  War 

Let  us  be  soft, 
Let  us  not  be  brave; 
Nor  put  more  iron  ships  upon  the  wave, 
Nor  put  more  iron  questions  to  the  Dumb. 
And  if  one  calls,  let  us  no  longer  come. 

Let  us  forbear, 
Leave  and  loose  us  there, 

Lean  and  lie  like  this, 
Let  us  kiss, 
(But  let  us  be  soft. 

Let  us  be  soft, 
Let  us  not  be  wise; 

No  more  with  fatal  words  contrive  replies, 
Nor  lace  the  corselet  of  the  shuddering  will, 
Nor  climb  for  curious  wonder  any  hill. 

Let  us  delay 
Let  us  make  the  day 

Into  night  with  sleep. 
Let  us  weep, 
(But  let  us  be  soft. 


THE  SULLEN  SON 

The  Maker  said,  "The  work  is  done. 
Stand  up,  my  Clay,  my  sullen  son. 
Stand  up  till  seventy  years  have  passed, 
And  you  are  crumbled  clay,  at  last." 

The  sullen  son  he  heaved  a  sigh, 
And  heavily  answered,  "Let  me  lie." 

The  Maker  said,  "You  shall  be  knowing 
Ten  times  seven  years  of  going; 
And  seven  hours  of  mortal  bliss.  .  .  . 
And  death  will  be  the  end  of  this. 
But  sundry  of  my  dead  sons  say 
The  price  was  not  too  much  to  pay." 


[H9] 


THE  WAKING  HOUSE 

Was  it  the  night-bee,  or  a  bird, 

Or  sighing  in  the  street? 
Or  but  the  house's  heart  that  stirred 

And  started,  then,  to  beat? 

Or  but  the  house's  soul  that  woke 
And  shuddered  with  its  care, 

Lest  all  its  sleepers'  hearts  be  broke 
In  sleep  while  sleeping  there! 

For  careful  houses  weep,  they  say, 
Between  the  dark  and  light, 

As  hearts  that  have  not  broke  by  day 
Are  apt  to  break  at  night. 

But  weary  houses  must  awake 
When  women  rub  their  eyes, 

And  from  the  near-by  cradle  take 
The  early  babe  that  cries. 

The  old  man  dons  his  memory 
And  wonders  how  to  live, 

And  just  how  old  a  man  must  be 
Before  he  can  forgive. 


Before  he  can  forgive  the  day 

That  kills  his  youth  again, 
The  youth  that  comes  to  bed  to  play 

When  old  men  sleep  from  pain. 

The  swain  that  vowed  him  to  despairs, 

Now  rosily  recants : 
The  Night  folds  up  his  showman's  wares 

And  takes  his  elephants. 

He  takes  his  silver  queens  and  dim, 

His  leapers,  man  by  man; 
His  lions  follow  after  him, 

His  Abyssinian. 

On  boats  of  morn  his  tents  embark, 

He  calls  his  harlequins; 
The  Merry- Andrews  of  the  dark 

Make  off  as  day  begins. 

The  bed  where  two  together  sleep 

Where  once  one  wept  in  bed, 
Now  feels  the  long  hair  wake  and  creep 

To  wreathe  the  husband's  head. 

The  mouse  foregoes  his  tiny  snore, 
The  phantom  leaves  the  stairs, 

The  sleepy  butterfly  once  more 
Resumes  her  heavy  cares. 

The  flowers  on  one  window  sill 
Turn  prudent  heads  about, 


So  not  to  see  against  their  will 
The  curly  climber-out. 

The  dwarf  down  in  the  cellar  makes 

His  little  dusty  bed, 
The  god  up  in  the  garret  shakes 

His  hyacinthine  head. 

The  song  is  looking  for  the  lark, 
The  brooms  beseech  the  maids, 

And  those  that  died  while  it  was  dark, 
They  sigh  and  get  their  spades. 

The  window  yawns,  the  bedposts  reel 

Fatigued  into  the  day; 
The  wakened  cover  laughs  to  feel 

The  maiden's  breasts  at  play. 

Her  little  shoes  that  on  the  floor 
Have  braved  the  darkness  through, 

Like  little  dogs  look  toward  the  door 
And  long  for  drinks  of  dew. 

The  shutters  now  consign  their  charge, 
The  floors  commence  to  creak, 

The  chimney-smoke  is  high  and  large 
The  pot  begins  to  speak. 

The  cordial  door  opes,  bowing  low, 
The  room  puts  out  its  lamp, 

And  down  the  road  that  houses  go 
The  house  begins  to  tramp, 


THE  POET'S  TWO  QUEENS 

"Ye  say  these  Twain  did  on  their  gowns, 
Their  shoon  of  Spanish  leather. 

And  fading  from  their  seven  towns, 
Sae  fared  them  forth  together?" 

The  Twain  did  on  their  golden  words 

With  which  their  lord  bedecked  them; 
And  like  the  plumes  of  purple  birds, 

The  jewels  flashed  and  flecked  them. 
The  people  cried,  "For  goodly  gear 

They  dim  the  summer  surely. 
The  day  will  be  put  out,  we  fear, 

The  sun  it  shines  so  poorly!" 

And  they  did  on  each  red,  red  wound 

With  which  their  lord  attired  them; 
The  wine-red  west  it  sighed  and  swooned, 

So  much  the  west  admired  them. 
And  blood-red  rubies  sighed  and  said, 

"These  queens  are  'sprent  so  gaily, 
We  seem  as  rubies  done  and  dead, 

They  make  us  gleam  so  palely." 

[153] 


AS  YOU  WENT 

As  you  went,  as  you  went, 
A  golden  banner  backward  bent ; 
As  the  Lost  look  o'er  the  shoulder, 
As  the  retreater  brightens,  bolder, 
As  the  fear  grows  cold  and  colder; 
As  the  wind  repents  and  turns, 
As  the  last  kiss  burns  and  burns ! 


NIGHT  SONG 

What  was  so  sweet  before? 
What  shadow  passed? 
What  feet  along  the  floor 
Went  fierce  and  fast? 
Was  it  a  closing  door 

(Locked,  at  last,) 
That  was  so  sweet  before? 
Was  it  a  sigh, 

Or  more, 
That  was  so  sweet  before? 

Was  it  the  cry, 
(Sudden  as  a  bird,) 
That  lovers  most  adore — 
The  sound  without  the  word — 

Pressed 

From  the  stricken  breast — 
That  was  so  sweet  before? 

Is  it  tears,  or  rain? 
(The  wind  begins  to  roar.) 

You  wring  your  hands!     Again? 
What  are  you  listening  for? 

The  wind's  disdain? 
There  are  no  sweetlings  more 

That  were  so  sweet  before! 


THE  RUNNERS 

"Run  by  my  side,"  you  said, 
Shaking  your  windy  head: 
We  sped. 

We  run,  we  run,  we  dart 
With  your  Herculean  heart, 
We  do  not  part. 

We  run,  we  leap  the  crag, 
I  hide  from  you,  my  stag, 
What  I  drag. 

Ever  our  speed  the  same; 
You  do  not  guess  the  shame, 
You,  master  of  the  game, 
I,  the  lame! 


THEY  SAID,  GO  AND  ASSUAGE 
HIM  OR  HE  DIES 

They  said,  "Go  and  assuage  him  or  he  dies, 
Handle  the  Horror  with  a  silken  glove. 
Tears  to  the  Terror.     Rain  for  outraged  drouth. 
Fondle  the  Furious.     Take  the  doomed  a  dove." 

What  shall  I  do  for  you,  my  Raging — 

Beguile  the  old  wronged  thunder  of  his  groan, 

Take  the  revolting  sea  into  a  lap, 

Soothe  the  sullen  meditation  of  a  stone, 

And  wet  those  outlawed  eyes  that  will  not  weep! 

Console  the  tiger,  rock  the  wolf  to  sleep ! 


[157] 


PIGEONS 

Did  you  hear  me  howling  all  night  long? 
Yesterday,  they  took  away  my  pigeons! 
I  have  no  use  for  anything  but  pigeons, 
I  cannot  pray  for  anything  but  pigeons, 
And  yesterday,  they  took  away  my  pigeons  1 

Who  are  they  that  come  defiling  pigeons — 
My  silken,  soft  and  silver  pigeons, 
My  cool,  my  bright,  my  burning  pigeons  1 
I  could  not  sleep  for  thought  of  pacing  pigeons  1 
Proud  pigeons! 
Pageantry  of  pigeons! 
I    whined    all    night    for    thought    of    humbled 

pigeons — 

Of  frightened  kings 
And  splendours  tarnished  down, 
Of  lordly  throats  unlorded, 

Lovers  unloved 
And  queens  unqueened! 
Yesterday,  they  took  away  my  pigeons. 
Did  you  hear  me  howling  all  night  long? 


FIERCELY  KIND  AND  BLACKLY 
BRIGHT 

Fiercely  kind  and  blackly  bright, 
He  feasts  the  minstrels,  night  by  night; 
He  feasts  the  men  of  lyre  and  wit, 
Nor  hardly  gives  a  sigh  of  it, 
The  secret  lyre  he  hides  from  earth. 
His  smile  it  listens  well  and  long, 
His  sadness  charitable  to  mirth, 
His  silence,  hospitable  to  song. 
His  shadow  makes  a  place  to  play 
Where  little  children  take  delight. 
What  sorrow  haunts  along  his  way, 
Fiercely  kind  and  blackly  bright? 


THE  BETRAYED 
Poor  cradle-song 

Fooled  one,  fooled  one, 

Hush  your  little  grieving ; 
Because  you  were  so  little 

We  fooled  you  into  living. 
Because  you  were  so  little 

We  gave  you  to  the  tear, 
But  your  father  and  your  mother 

Were  so  young  last  year. 

Fooled  one,  fooled  one, 

I  never  thought  to  tell  you 
What  a  fix  the  world  is 

And  how  they  buy  and  sell  you. 
You  should  have  a  golden  cradle, 

You  should  have  a  silver  stool, 
But  when  your  little  words  come, 

Don't  let  the  words  be  crool. 

Fooled  one,  fooled  one, 
When  my  dove  is  sleeping, 

I'm  playing  that  you  don't  know, 
Till  cruel  dawn  is  creeping; 
[160] 


Like  a  safe  little  dream-babe, 
That  neither  sees  nor  hears. 

But  oh,  it  is  your  looking, 
With  your  little  wild  tears! 

Some  day,  some  day, 

In  scarlet  coat  and  breeches 

You'll  be  chasing  foxes 

With  your  fine  hound  bitches; 
And  sporting  velvet  ladies 

To  the  'King  of  Ireland's  ball, 
And  if  you  see  me  by  the  road, 
You  needn't  look  at  all. 


[161] 


THE  DAY  THE  DOOM  WAS  FIXED 

The  day  the  doom  was  fixed  at  last 
And  the  sign  fell  down  the  sky, 

I  called  my  hundred  souls  to  me 
And  told  them  we  must  die. 

My  hundred  souls  fell  shivering 
And  made  a  mighty  cry. 

My  hundred  souls  cried  out  amain, 
And  begged  more  days  and  hours; 

My  wise  souls  wept  for  foolish  things, 
Desires  and  dreams  and  powers; 

My  fools  bemoaned  the  soul  of  fools 
And  violins  and  flowers. 

One  said  "I  feel  the  pang,  the  haste 
Of  those  that  die  too  soon!" 

And  one  would  wait  a  little  while 
Again  to  see  the  moon. 

I  said,  "We  dare  not  see  the  sun, 
We  cannot  face  the  noon!" 

I  said,  "We  cannot  dare  the  day 
That  strikes  us  from  above !" 


Sighed  one  poor  soul,  "They  murmur  on, 
The  wind,  the  wave,  the  dove!" 

And  one  complained  his  woeful  state, 
Yet  unappeased  from  love. 

The  tallest  soul  he  heaved  him  up 
With  roaring  as  of  thunder, 

And  cried,  "My  curse  upon  your  hand! 
Like  grass  you  plow  me  under! 

And  it  was  I  that  saw  the  god 
And  was  half  god  with  wonder." 


YOU  THOUGHT  I  LOVED  YOU 

You  thought  I  loved  you, 

Because  I  smiled. 

You  did  not  know  the  dread  of  stars  that  drove  me, 
You  could  not  know  the  mirth  of  moons  that  move 

me, 

Nor  all  the  winds  that  weep  me  wild, 
You  thought  I  loved  you, 
Because  I  smiled. 

You  thought  I  loved  you, 

Because  I  groaned. 

You  did  not  know  the  fear  of  fiends  that  sue  me, 
You  could  not  know  the  deaths  that  did  undo  me, 
Nor  minds  of  men  that  in  me  moaned, 
You  thought  I  loved  you, 
Because  I  groaned. 


FOOL  SONGS 

I 

There  was  a  lady  fair  that  loved  a  fool, 
A  heavenly  fool  that  kept  the  flutes  of  heaven. 
She  said :  "For  one  thing  wise  men  learn  in  school, 
He  knows  seven." 

She  said:     "He  knows  one  secret  of  the  sea, 
And  one  of  mountains  all  mooned  out  with  moons, 
And  eagled  out  with  eagles.     And  of  me 
He  knows  a  secret  set  to  all  his  tunes." 

And  the  lady  sang  and  said, 
"From  bells  I'll  never  part, 
For  it  takes  the  wisest  man 
To  break  a  woman's  heart." 

And  the  lady  said  and  sang, 
"There  is  a  heavenly  rule, 
That  a  woman's  heart  is  safe 
In  the  breast  of  a  heavenly  fool." 

II 

It  is  a  fool  that  keeps  the  flutes  of  heaven, 
A  fool  is  master  of  the  lutes  and  lyres ; 


And  he  is  wisest  of  all  angels  there, 
And  captain  of  the  tall  and  flaming  choirs 
That  sing  before  the  Unutterable  Fair. 
It  is  a  fool  that  keeps  the  wise  in  heaven. 


[166] 


TO  A  POET  COMING  TO  PARIS 

Out  of  the  deeps  you  appear  1 
And  is  it  a  day,  or  a  year 

That  we  were  apart, 

My  vagabond  Heart? 
Since  we  sang  so, 

And  rang  so, 
Rattling  our  bells, 
Shaking  the  clappers  of  heavens  and  hells? 

It  was  long, 

The  pause  in  our  song, 
And  no  sea  and  no  ship 

iBrought  a  merchandise 

Like  the  ore  of  your  eyes, 
Nor  the  fine,  fine  coin  of  your  lip. 

But  now, 
How 

You  enjambez  the  edge  of  the  earth, 

Out  of  what  mirth, 

Or  what  faring,  funebre! 
Crac!     You  vault  into  this  Paris  celebre! 

No,  you  lounge  in,  flaneur: 
An  effect  of  lucent  loisir 


Mantles  your  headlong  career 
Toward  Her. 

With  your  air  of  the  stroller,  the  same, 

Gentle  and  speedy  and  sure 
Is  your  wild  and  wounded  and  pure 

Quest  of  "The  Dame."  * 

Now,  to  search  your  pockets  for  pearls! 

Poet,  out  with  your  snare ! 
(See  how  the  leaf  uncurls!) 

Thieves  of  the  Beau,  we  share! 

Thieves  of  the  Beau, 

We  uncover  the  find,  we  show — 
The  plunder  unveil. 

We  know ! 
Why  have  we  gone  so  pale? 

Why  have  we  gone  so  pale? 

Look,  where  it  comes  again ! 
The  towering  of  a  sail, 
The  bannering  of  a  mane, 

The  delivery  of  fight, 
The  lances  of  the  night, 

The  lion's  pa'ce, 
The  scutcheon  of  a  King, 
The  Face, 
The  Thing! 

*This  poet  gave  to  Beauty,  herself,  the  title  of  The  Dame. 

[i  68] 


•    Shut  the  door! 

Though  it  is  Paris  dehors, 
The  inecrasable,  the  sot, 

Who  did  not  know  Death 

When  they  met,  breath  to  breath, 
Sinews  of  Rodin  and  face  of  Watteaul 

Shut  the  door! 

It  is  here,  as  before, 
The  phantom  that  shatters  the  heart! 
The  Look!     The  Vesture  .  .  .  once  more! 
The  Fouguel    The  Ghost!     The  Art! 

Welcome,  Ghost-seer,  perverse, 
Fool  to  his  fellow,  like  birds 
Of  a  feather.     What  words 

Have  you  in  your  purse? 

You  are  rich!     What  plenty  for  play! 
There  are  more  when  these  are  gone. 
We  are  spendthrifts  of  grief,  we  are  gay! 
We  will  play  this  ghost  for  his  feu  sacre! 
The  game  is  on! 

We  will  play  this  king 

For  his  crown, 

For  his  ring 
And  his  ivory  town. 

While  the  night  is  young 
We  will  play  for  his  Tongue. 
When  the  night  is  old 


We  will  play  for  the  gold 
Of  his  mighty  eyes. 
When  the  larks  arise, 
His  mantle  we  will  part; 
And  when  three  times  the  cock-crow  cries 
We'll  toss  for  his  terrible  heart! 

Mon  vieux! 

So,  my  hearty,  you've  really  come! 
In  the  night,  the  sound  of  a  drum 
And  a  flute  at  dawn  gave  word. 
Was  it  you,  or  a  bird? 

Mon  vieux, 


[170] 


THE  TOO  WITTY  HUSBAND 

The  ghosts  of  Homer  and  of  Herrick,  too, 
Inhabit  him,  the  epic  and  the  lyric,  too; 
Still  more,  that  stalwart,  he  that  will  not  down, 
The  ghost  that  drew  the  Hamlet  and  the  clown. 
(Featest  of  conjurers,  I  lately  wonder 
How  you  contrived  to  keep  the  two  asunder!) 

A  Merry- An  drew  grinned  a  moment  since 
Where  I  had  turned  me  to  behold  my  prince: 

Who  would  have  dreamed  a  king  so  rude  in  play — 
Methought  I  loved  a  mountebank  today! 

But  now,  I  met  my  stateliest  in  the  way 
And   leaned   on   Prospero  ...  no   such   noble 

luck! 

Drubbed  by  the  son  of  Sycorax,  I  pluck 
Me  from  his  paws  and  then,  am  pinched  of 
Puck! 

I  came  to  lead  the  royal  one  to  bed, 
And  majesty  stood  twirling  on  his  head! 

Ah,  how  I  fainted  with  the  clown  too  near — 
I  closed  my  sight  on  that  wide,  jigging  leer! 

Starry  repenter  who  then  bowed  above 
My  healed  eyes  .  .  .  again,  the  king  in  love! 


SECOND  FIDDLE 

Now,  since  it  is  the  fashion 
To  wear  this  kind  of  shape, 

With  neither  pain  nor  passion 
I  meet  a  passing  ape. 

I   meet  with   equanimity 

That  noble  passer-by, 
And  view  his  form's  sublimity 

With  firm  and  equal  eye. 

And  yet,  that  something  waving! 

That  something  lithe  and  slim, 
Which  in  its  brave  behaving 

So  decorateth  him, 

The  added  grace  thus  making 

The  lordly  state  of  mind ; 
At  that,  my  pride  forsaking, 
The  ancient  grief  awaking, 
I  miss  the  frisk  behind ! 


[172] 


THE  EVENT 

The  sleeping  houses  stirred  in  sleep, 
And  folk  who  slept  they  smiled, 

And  those  who  wept  all  ceased  to  weep, 
And  birds  were  dawn  beguiled. 

For  suddenly  the  town  was  red, 

It  gleamed  a  crimson  glow, 
And  he  who  had  not  gone  to  bed, 

He  groaned,  and  said  "I  know." 


[173] 


LINES  COMPOSED  IN  SLEEP 

But  if  my  love  outlast  me, 

Drug  his  thirst  with  amber  drips 
From  the  wells  where  once  I  cast  me, 

When  I  sailed  in  briny  ships; 
For  houseless  love,  the  ruthless, 
Weeps  with  winter  torn  and  toothless, 
So,  soothe  the  sullen  sootheless — 
But  never  touch  his  lips! 


[174] 


INVADER 

A  dirty  urchin  climbed  the  tree 

Where  sat  the  throned  and  plumed  me 
I  brandish  but  a  golden  tongue, 
And  charm  him  who  defiles  my  young. 

Honied  curses  grace  his  sins — 
The  murderer  slays  to  violins! 


[175] 


THERE  WAS  A  FOOL 

There  was  a  fool 

And  he  sat  catching  flies, 
April  in  his  mouth 

And  Winter  in  his  eyes ; 

And  he  was  sad, 
For  he  had 

The  heart  of  a  king. 

Sing,  sing! 
It  is  sad  when  a  fool  has  the  heart  of  a  king! 

There  was  a  king 

And  he  sat  on  his  throne ; 
His  courtiers  were  dull, 

So  he  laughed  all  alone; 
And  he  was  glad, 
For  he  had 

The  heart  of  a  fool. 

Rule,  rule! 
It  is  glad  when  a  king  has  the  heart  of  a  fool! 


THE  WOMAN  OF  PROPERTY 
Irish  Song 

Do  you  think  at  this  day  you  can  call  me  and  keep 

me, 

You  that  was  good  to  me  once  and  no  more? 
And  you  that  was  bad  to  me,  now  you  can  weep 

me, 

Weep  as  you  laughed  with  your  laughing  be 
fore. 
I   am   the  wind-flower,   long  winds  they  sweep 

me — 

I  am  the  corn,  and  the  reaper  can  reap  me, 
I  am  the  clay,  with  the  young  roots  to  lover  me, 
I've  got  me  own  grass,  and  plenty  to  cover  me. 


[177] 


SING  A  SONG  OF  SAGES 

Sing  a  song  of  sages, 
Butterflies  of  stone, 

Every  wight  his  wages, 
Every  dog  his  bone. 

Carry  pap  to  Titans, 
Creeds  for  dying  fools, 

Brooches  for  hanged  men, 
Lullabies  for  bulls. 

Ribbons  for  the  gibbet, 

Briars  for  the  bed, 
Scarlet  for  the  blindman, 

Brides  for  the  dead. 

Velvet  for  the  wolf, 

Poetry  for  posts, 
Violins  for  vultures, 

Trinkets  for  the  ghosts. 


CAPTURE 

Make  way!     I  have  a  war  to  wage  on  roses  I 

Do  not  impede  me, 

Let  the  lovers  lead  me ; 
Those  for  whom  the  cloven  bud  uncloses, 
For  whom  the  brazen  breezes  break  the  roses! 

Let  not  the  curious 

Retard  the  furious! 
The  daring  doomed  one  who  this  rage  discloses. 

My  wounds  defy  you, 

As  I  run  by  you 

To  where  the  villain  of  delight  reposes, 
The  foe  who  fools  me  in  his  forts  of  roses! 

The  white  shall  yield  him, 

The  red  shall  not  shield  him, 
Though  the  dearest  dastard  dreams  and  dozes! 

The  sweet  shall  not  stay  it 

Nor  darlings  delay  it — 
My  capture  of  the  culprit  in  the  roses! 


[179] 


TWENTY-SIX  EARLY  POEMS 

I 
AND  FEW  THERE  ARE 

And  few  there  are  who  live,  alas, 

And  they  are  far  from  here, 
Who  know  how  young  and  dear  I  was 
When  I  was  young  and  dear. 


II 

I  SIT  A  BEGGAR  IN  THE  PORCH 
OF  LOVE 

I  sit,  a  beggar  in  the  porch  of  Love; 

Closed  is  the  door  I  could  not  hope  to  win, 
iBut  when  another,  careless,  enters  there, 

I  seize  one  little,  blinded  look  within. 


[181] 


Ill 

SHALL  I  CALL  YOU  AND  CARRY 
YOU,  NOW? 

Shall  I  call  you  and  carry  you,  now, 

In  the  arms  of  my  singing? 

As  swift  as  the  bird  from  the  bough, 

So  wildly  up-winging? 

Shall  I  call  you  and  comfort  you  low, 

With  runing  of  rivers  a-flow, 

With  murmurs  of  crooning  and  clinging? 

Shall  I  call  you  and  cast  you  a-far, 

In  the  might  of  my  singing? 

Like  winds  that  are  wounding  a1  star, 

So  fiercely  up-flinging? 

Shall  I  call  you  and  clamour  your  pain, 

With  thunderous  ruin  of  rain, 

The  tears  of  my  terrible  singing! 


IV 

HE  IS  SO  LITTLE  AND  SO  WAN 

He  is  so  little  and  so  wan, 
This  love  I  lose  my  life  upon, 

A  little  careless  lad,  but  sweet; 

Still,  turn  your  idle  smile  on  her 

Who  wastes  her  spikenard  and  her  myrrh, 
Forever  on  your  feet. 

For  who  could  ask  a  little  lad 

To  love,  for  loving  is  but  sad, 
(Sweet  Joseph  into  bondage  sold!) 
Still,  turn  your  idle  smile  on  her 
Who  wastes  her  spikenard  and  her  myrrh, 
Forever  unconsoled. 


V 
IF  THOU  REMEMBEREST  ME 

If  thou  rememberest  me, 

It  will  be 

Not  for  my  sweetness, 

Nor  the  high  completeness 

Of  my  noblest  folly; 

Nor  for  the  melancholy 

That  lay  dim 

Upon  mine  eyelids'  rim; 

Nor  for  my  deeper  laughter, 

Or  the  silence  that  came  after; 

Nor  for  my  thought  that  found  thine 

Compassed,  clasped  and  bound  thine: 

But,  if  thou  rememberest  me, 

It  will  be 

As  a  gentle  slight  thing, 

Some  poor  and  playful  light  thing, 

A  blind  clown  dancing  blindly, 

But  thine  own  fool  and  kindly — 

If  thou  rememberest  me. 


VI 
WHERE  ARE  YOU  MY  DEAR? 

And  where  are  you,  my  dear,  my  dear, 

My  dear  so  soon  forgot? 
The  dear  that  was  so  dear  to  me, 

But  now  beloved  not. 

And  where  away,  my  dear,  my  dear, 
To  whom  my  heart  was  kind? 

Now  that  I  love  you,  love,  no  more, 
You  hang  upon  my  mind. 


VII 
YOU  WHO  CAN,  COME  CHARM  ME 

Ah,  you  who  can,  come  charm  me! 

I  lapse,  I  pass, 
Like  the  purple  in  the  glass, 

And  the  charmless  hurt  and  harm  me. 
Ten  thousand  men 
Come  by,  and  go  again, 

And  their  wise,  wise  words  alarm  me; 

I  dull,  I  dim, 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  rim 

Of  the  cup  that  would  disarm  me ; 
Sweet  fool  of  mine, 
Save  the  credit  of  the  wine, 

Ah,  you  who  can,  come  charm  me! 
Where  e'er  you  be, 
Sweet  fool,  unknown  to  me, 

Ah,  you  who  can,  come  charm  me ! 


[186] 


VIII 
BUT  IF  YOU  COME  TO  ME  BY  DAY 

But  if  you  come  to  me  by  day, 

I  shall  not  know  at  all, 
Nor  hark  your  foot  in  any  hall ; 
I  shall  not  know  your  look  and  way, 

(Unless  you  kiss  and  call.) 

No  daylight-dear  are  you  for  loss, 

For  man  to  win  or  weep, 
But  one  the  careful  Night  shall  keep — 
A  fountain  dim  that  flowed  across 

The  desert  of  my  sleep. 

Oh,  draught  of  dreams!     Past  sound  and  sight, 
Where  never  man  could  mark — 
Nor  listen  any  drowsy  lark — 

I  held  you  in  the  hollow  night 
And  drank  you  in  the  dark! 


IX 

DO  NOT  WEEP  NOW 

Do  not  weep  now  while  the  evening  goes, 
While  that  wounded  rose 

Drops  a  flight  of  fainting  petals  there 
On  the  heavy  air; 

Every  one  a  dying  butterfly, 

Falling  like  a  sigh: 

Do  not  weep  now  while  the  evening  goes. 

You  shall  weep  tomorrow  like  the  rain; 

See  our  window  pane, 
With  one  little  candle  all  alight 

For  the  coming  night; 
How  the  hut  waits,  hidden  in  with  leaves, 

The  last  of  our  reprieves.  .  .  . 
You  shall  weep  tomorrow  like  the  rain! 


X 

YOU  WHO  PIPE  SO  LOUD 

You,  who  pipe  so  loud,  there,  making  lusty  love 

songs, 

You,  who  walk  so  close  with  cheeks  that  kiss ; 
You,  who  sit  alone,  there,  making  plaintive  dove- 
songs, 
Crooning  to  the  sea  of  this  and  this: 

You,  who  shake  the  -skies,  there,  with  your  lover's 
thunder; 

You,  who  sleep  so  ill  for  waiting  tryst; 
You,  who  speak  so  wild  as  men  who  tell  a  wonder, 

All  your  kisses  I  have  kissed  and  kissed. 

I  have  laughed  your  laughter,  I  have  wept  your 

weeping, 

All  your  little  songs  I  sang  before ; 
Come   not  with   your   lutes,   then,   where   I   lie 

a-sleeping, 
I,  who  am  a  lover  now  no  more. 


XI 
SHUT  IN  THE  JUNG-FRAU 

A  safer  place  a  man  needs  not 
From  enemies  a  quiet  spot; 

A  foeman  who  could  find  me  here 
Is  worthy  of  his  pot  of  beer. 

A  weary  man  like  me,  fore-spent, 
Might  view  this  dwelling  well  content, 

And  nothing  lack  and  nothing  rue, 
If  'twere  not  for  this  accident 

Of  iron  spikes  that  run  me  through. 


XII 
UNHASP  YOUR  DOOR 

Unhasp  your  door  and  let  me  in! 

God  knows  the  place  where  I  have  been! 
Then  ope  your  heart  so  pure  of  sin, 

And  warm  my  body  and  my  soul. 

Then  ope  your  heart  so  fair  that  is, 
Your  bosom  white  as  white  roses, 

And  in  your  kirtle  and  your  kiss, 
Oh,  warm  my  body  and  my  soul! 

"From  off  my  door-latch  loose  your  hold, 
Nor  let  the  wind  in  from  the  wold ; 

My  heart  it  is  too  small  and  cold, 
To  warm  your  body  or  your  soul." 


XIII 
I  MADE  A  LITTLE  EATER 

I  made  a  little  Eater 

Upon  an  idle  day, 
A  jolly  little  trencherman, 

He  ate  my  care  away. 

A  jolly  little  trencherman, 
When  he  sat  down  to  sup, 

He  gnawed  me  to  the  naked  bones 
And  ate  mine  honour  up. 


[192] 


XIV 
WHO  BEFRIEND  ME 

Who  befriend  me, 

Who  would  mend  me, 

Who  full  wearily  would  end  me ; 

I  who  dream  here, 

Groan  and  gleam  here, 

Lift  my  fountained  cries  and  stream  here, 

I,  the  lame 

Fool  of  fame, 

Singer  of  a  secret  name, 

Thus  salute  you, 

As  I  flute  you, 

Saying  softly,  not  to  mute  you : 

"Knight  and  dame, 

Praise  and  blame 

To  my  belled  head  sound  the  same." 


[193] 


XV 
THE  SISTER 

Kallista 

She  came  to  show  her  beauties  dear, 

And  brought  her  kissing  eyes. 
Her  breasts  were  like  two  little  hills 

Where  the  snow-drift  lies. 
Her  hair  went  reaching  down  and  down 

With  little  arms  that  hugged  and  slipped, 
And  it  was  gold  and  it  was  brown. 

Her  little  feet,  they  twinkled,  tripped, 
And  sweetly,  foolishly,  they  skipped. 

Her  sister  kissed  her  on  the  eyes 
Where  hidden  angels  went  and  came, 

She  drew  her  hair  back  from  her  throat, 
And  there  she  did  the  same. 

She  kissed  her  hair  on  either  side, 
She  kissed  it  on  the  part, 

She  kissed  her  on  her  wide  young  breast 
Above  her  golden  heart. 

(And  then  she  took  her  by  the  waist 

And  laid  her  on  her  bed ; 
And  then  she  said  unto  herself, 

"Good  God,  if  this  were  dead!") 


XVI 
TO  A  LIONESS 

The  cage  is  empty  where  she  paced, 

The  tawny-flanked,  the  tawny-eyed, 
The  great  of  heart,  the  great  disgraced : 

The  cage  is  empty  where  she  paced, 
No  more  the  humbled  mighty  stride, 

The  gleam  along  her  golden  side; 

The  cage  is  empty  where  she  paced. 

But  yesterday,  to  scrutinize 

The  deepness  of  her  golden  eyes! 
Between  the  bars  they  gazed  so  still, 

One  could  have  thought, her  iron  will 
Had  died — and  died  her  great  revolt. 

But  hot  and  wild  as  flame  through  smoke 
The  heavy  lion-heart  out-broke 

Through  pain  and  patience,  bar  and  bolt, 
Through  frozen  hope  and  dead  surprise 

The  deserts  burned  us  from  her  eyes. 
The  cage  is  empty  where  she  paced, 

The  tawny-fla'nked,  the  tawny-eyed, 
The  great  of  heart,  the  great  disgraced: 

The  cage  is  empty  where  she  paced. 


XVII 
THE  TWO  SORROWS 

Sorrow, 

Sorrow,  my  pretty  little  sorrow! 
Once  you  were  a  dove  to  cling  and  coo, 
Then  you  followed  like  a  lamb  and  loved  me — 

I  made  a  song  of  you. 

Sorrow, 

Sorrow,  oh,  my  monster  sorrow! 
Now,  how  changed  your  look!     I  dare  not  be 
In  the  room  alone  with  you,  my  sorrow, 

Lest  you  strangle  me! 


XVIII 

YOU  ARE  SO  KIND  NOW  YOU  ARE 
DEAD 

You  are  so  kind,  so  kind,  now  you  are  dead! 
I  could  take  your  hands, 
Loose  the  linen  bands, 

Make  them  clasp  my  face, 

In  a  late  embrace ; 
To  my  lips  at  last, 

Hold  them  fast. 
(Once  before  you  go, 
It  might  be  so.) 
Lifting  back  your  hair, 
I  could  make  it  bate — 
The  patient  forehead  there, 

Take  or  spare, 

Stare  and  stare. 
Where  the  eyebrows  turn, 
I  could  fix  and  burn 
Interrogation  stern. 

So  appease  my  sight 

On  that  J^ouse  of  white, 
Where  beneath  the  ring 
[197] 


Of  your  tresses'  wing, 
Lived  of  late,  the  Thing; 
Lived  of  late,  the  still 
Inexorable  Will. 

You  ate  so  kind,  so  kind,  now  you  are  dead! 
I  could  draw  you  up — 
As  to  lips  the  cup, 

Fold  you  near, 
Press  and  press  you  here, 
Crush  your  wreaths  of  rue, 
And  ease  my  heart  on  you! 

You  are  so  kind,  so  kind,  now  you  are  dead! 


XIX 

YOU  WHO  HAVE  TAKEN 
EVERYTHING  AWAY  FROM  ME 

You  who  have  taken  everything  away  from  me, 

See — peeping  round  the  bole  of  any  tree 
In  this  forest's  mute  advance, 

See  how  I  sing  and  dance, 

Making  merry  in  my  place. 
Did  you  look  for  Hagar  in  my  face, 

At  whose  tread  the  pansy  dies, 
And  peer  for  Ishmaels  in  mine  eyes? 
Look  rather  at  these  little  legs  that  play, 
That  circle  May  poles,  making  endless  May, 

Of  woman  turned  to  be  a  fay. 
And  see,  on  every  flower  a  pearl  appears 

Where  fell,  in  dancing,  all  my  little  tears. 


[i99] 


XX 

HERE  I  CAN  STOP  AT  LAST 

Here  I  can  stop  at  last, 

Here  cease  from  running: 
Here  all  is  tight  and  fast. 

Raining  or  sunning. 
Safe  from  your  eye  of  stone, 

Like  toper  drinking. 
Here  I  can  lie  alone, 

With  my  own  thinking. 
Here  I  have  my  delight 

Where  Horn-foot  dances, 
Playing  the  livelong  night 

With  hiding  fancies. 


[200] 


XXI 
THE  MAKER 

The  lover  rejoicing  in  deserts, 

So  went  I,  the  one  unregretful, 
The  smiler  in  desolate  places, 
The  careless,  the  proud,  the  forgetful, 
The  laugher — although  you  had  stone  me,- 
You,  turning  compassionate  faces, 
Believed  me  alone  and  bemoaned  me, 
Unknowing  the  bed,  the  embraces.  .  .  . 


[201] 


XXII 
BLOW  AND  BEAT  UPON  MY  HUT 

Blow  and  beat  upon  my  hut, 

Wind  of  man's  disdain! 
Loose  my  thatch  and  leave  my  fire 

Drowned  in  the  rain; 
Let  fall  the  winter  of  my  fate, 

But  me  you  have  not  slain! 

Birds  of  prey  that  pluck  and  flay, 
You  break  my  heart  in  vain! 

Desire  of  the  heart  is  naught, 
Nor  wonder  of  the  brain, 

Nor  is  it  death  that  conquereth, 
For  me  you  have  not  slain. 

God,  or  goblin, — what  you  will, 

King,  or  clown-in-pain,— 
Vanished  laugher!  who  can  that 

Deep  insolence  restrain! 
The  earth  has  hid  the  dead  man's  tears, 

But  me  you  have  not  slain! 

[202] 


XXIII 
JAMIE 

The  Ballad  of  a  Dead  Boy 

And  that  was  he  that  died  last  night! 

Did  no  one  hear  a  sound? 
The  dead  they  die  so  stealthily 

When  you  have  turned  around. 
They  wait  until  you  have  forgot, 

Until  the  moon  is  drowned. 

To  die  it  is  a1  secret  thing — 
The  closing  of  the  book — 

The  furtive  dead  they  are  ashamed, 
The  dead  that  are  forsook; 

So  death  it  is  a  secret  thing, 
And  never  man  must  look. 

Perhaps,  they  know  what  we  will  do, 
And  why  we  dig  the  snow ; 

They'd  rather  be  in  their  own  beds, 
Than  to  be  used  so. 

And  thus  they  die  so  carefully, 

And  hope  we  shall  not  know.  .  .  , 
[203] 


They  cleared  the  snow.    They  dug  the  ground, 

(They  worked  with  little  joy,) 
They  piled  it  back,  they  piled  it  back, 

And  sweat  to  their  employ. 
Who  would  have  thought  'twould  take  so  much 

To  cover  up  a  boy ! 

They  piled  it  back,  and  yet  they  say 

He  never  gave  a  start, 
They  piled  it  there  upon  his  hair 

Up-curling  from  the  part; 
They  heaped  it  long  on  his  shoulders  strong, 

They  heaped  it  on  his  heart. 

They  piled  it  on  his  young,  young  lips, 

They  piled  it  on  his  feet, 
We  saw  it  rise  on  his  eager  eyes, 

His  eyes  that  were  so  sweet. 
We  saw  it  drift  on  his  limbs  so  swift 

And  cover  him  complete. 

They  took  his  thought,  his  mighty  hope, 

And  piled  them  high  with  mire, 
They  piled  it  on  his  wistful  heart, 

Ulpon  his  knightly  fire, 
They  piled  it  on  his  undone  deeds, 

His  unappeased  desire. 

And  strange,  we  never  stayed  their  hands, 
We  stood  there  in  a  ring ; 
[204] 


He_was  so  patient  all  the  while, 

We  heard  no  murmuring; 
But  he  must  have  wondered  that  we  stood 

And  let  them  do  this  thing. 

The  hole  it  was  so  deep,  so  deep, 

We  did  not  hear  him  sigh ; 
Nor  did  we  know  if  he  complained, 

Or  gave  one  stricken  cry; 
But,  oh,  he  must  have  wondered  sore 

That  we  stood  careless  by. 

We  cannot  keep  the  Dead,  they  say, 

The  Law  it  disallows; 
And  so  we  hid  him  near  the  gate 

Beneath  familiar  boughs. 
And  so  at  night  there,  he  can  see 

The  windows  of  his  house. 

But  still  we  wish  he  would  not  come, 

And  with  his  earthy  hair, 
Go  walking  round  and  round  the  house, 

Upon  his  feet  of  air; 
For  we  should  be  as  dead  as  he, 

If  we  should  see  him  there. 

He  walks  and  walks  around  his  house, 

And  we  can  hear  him  go. 
He  must  believe  he  is  forgot, 

We  let  him  weary  so. 
[205] 


He  walks  about,  and  yet  there  are 
No  marks  upon  the  snow. 

The  young  dead  are  so  lonely  there, 

At  night  beneath  the  rain, 
They  come  and  come  unto  the  door 

To  be  let  in  again ; 
And  when  we  will  not  lift  the  latch, 

They  look  so  through  the  pane! 

He  is  so  homesick  in  the  night, 
When  beds  are  warm  within! 

To  hear  him  stealing  to  and  fro, 
It  gnaws  us  like  a  sin; 

But  it  is  a  shame  to  call  his  name 
When  he  is  looking  in. 

It  is  a  shame  to  speak  to  what 
The  outlawed  dead  become. 

The  Law  is  hard,  the  Law  has  barred 
Them  out  and  struck  them  dumb. 

It  is  a  sin  to  call  them  in, 

Because  they  cannot  come.  .  .  . 

When  he  went  up  the  stairs  that  night, 

He  whistled  as  he  strode, 
When  he  came  down  the  stairs  again, 

He  was  a  heavy  loa'd. 
When  he  came  down  the  stairs  again, 

He  was  a  mortal  load. 

[206] 


And  thus  his  doom  it  had  been  writ 

In  the  book  of  Secret  Law, 
And  so  they  came  and  killed  him  there, 

And  no  man  ever  saw. 
He  did  not  know,  and  so  he  gave 

A  kind  of  a  hurrah! 

He  did  not  know  that  it  was  writ, 

His  heart  it  held  no  fears, 
As  calm  as  when  on  quiet  sea 

The  quiet  moon  appears, 
He  dreamed,  and  often  in  his  dream, 

He  called  upon  his  dears. 

They  came  and  marked  him  on  the  brow, 
(Where  little  ringlets  hung,) 

He  did  not  know  it  all  the  while 
And  so  he  laughed  and  sung: 

He  did  not  know  they  were  killing  him 
Because  he  was  so  young.  .  .  . 

His  youth  it  must  seem  strange  to  them, 

The  old  and  sullen  dead. 
He  took  his  golden  youth  to  them, 

His  gold  untarnished. 
He  looked  upon  the  world  and  then, 

He  took  his  youth  and  fled. 


[207! 


XXIV 
THE  BED 

Jamie 

For  you  the  Spring  he  made  a  bed 
With  all  young  flowers  embroidered, 

The  sweetlings  of  the  year  he  led 
And  wove  for  you  a  purple  spread, 
With  starry  cypress  at  the  foot 

And  moon-flowers  at  the  head. 

For  you  the  Spring  he  made  a  bed. 

But  when  he  saw  you  would  not  come 
For  all  the  moon  and  May, 

He  rolled  his  lacy  linen  up, 
And  sighing  went  away. 

The  Summer  made  a  bed  for  you 
Of  silk  to  cover  from  the  dew, 

Of  silky  grass  that  bent  and  blew, 
With  only  roses  peering  through 
To  see  the  silver  sluggard  there, 

For  pretty  posies  to  bestrew, 

Where  Summer  made  a  bed  for  you. 

[208] 


f  ;      ,  ", 

But  never  did  the  Summer  see 

The  drowsy  dear  encurled. 
She,  weeping,  took  her  tapestries, 

And  went  across  the  world. 

Then  Winter  made  a1  bed  as  white 

As  moons  that  freeze  the  livelong  night; 

You  left  the  fire,  you  left  the  light, 
And  laid  you  down  in  love's  despite. 
You  laid  you  down  and  slept  full  well, 

And  Dark  that  leaned  on  you  was  bright, 

Where  Winter  made  your  bed  so  white. 

The  Winter  never  was  so  proud; 

He  shut  the  chamber  door. 
And  years  may  come,  and  years  may  go, 

But  Winter  goes  no  more. 


[209] 


XXV 

BLIND  EYES 

Jamie 

Blind  eyes,  blind  eyes 

That  gazed  so  long, 
Blind  eyes  that  loved  to  see, 
What  are  you  looking  at,  underground, 

That  look  no  more  on  me? 

Stone  lips,  stone  lips 

That  spoke  me  kind, 
Stone  lips  that  called  me  fair, 
Whom  are  you  speaking  to,  underground, 

Is  any  lover  there? 


[210] 


XXVI 
JAMIE 

His  heart  was  like  a  friendly  hearth 

Where  the  friends  retire, 
And  we  would  sit  at  evening 

To  warm  us  by  the  fire. 

Now,  he  is  a  fallen  house, 

The  grass  is  in  his  door, 
And  though  you  go,  at  evening, 

He  bids  you  in  no  more. 

Come  away,  the  grass  is  cold, 

The  wind  is  all  about: 
You  cannot  warm  you  at  a  hearth 

Where  the  fire  is  out. 


[211] 


LOVE-ENDING 

Go,  go, 

Complete  the  overthrow! 

Low  lutes  that  were  so  loud ! 

Proud  eyes  for  weeping! 

(O,  poor  that  were  so  proud!) 

Tall  grain  for  good  reaping — 

Slain  kings  for  sound  sleeping! 

Cold  hearts  no  hearth  shall  warm! 

Long  roads  for  rueing! 
How  to  perform 
This  wonder  of  undoing! 

Beat  down 

The  alabaster  town! 

With  what  downfall 

Of  amethystine  hall! 

Shatter  the  towers, 

The  feasts  of  fruit  and  flowers, 

The  crystal  cups  and  all — 

Tear  the  silver  sleeve 

And  break  the  golden  bell! 

How  to  achieve 

This  pale  feat  of  farewell! 

[212] 


Part,  part, 

Loose  the  prisoned  heart! 
The  velvet  vassal  flies — 
To  the  wind  he  goes ! 
But  no,  he  turns  and  lies 
Against  me  like  a  rose, 
With  his  slaying  eyes! 
Intercept  the  sun 
That  I  may  not  see! 

How  to  be  done 

With  this  Gethsemane! 

Wait,  wait, 
Rend  the  delicate, 
The  woven  strands  with  care 
With  care  divide 
The  intertwined  hair, 
And  side  from  side 
Withdraw  the  fair  from  fair! 
Make  far  the  fair  and  fain! 
Fold  back  the  stubborn  arm! 

How  to  attain 

This  irretrievable  harm! 

Undo 

The  arms  that  tether  you ! 
Unclasp  the  impearled  belt! 
Softly  not  to  wound; 
Let  the  girdle  melt, 
Parting,  half  unfelt 


Where  once  the  lover  swooned. 
Still,  the  fingers  hold; 
The  moony  cincture  tying! 

How  to  be  bold 

With  this  excess  of  dying! 

Be  still; 

Yield  th'  embracing  will! 

Close  the  fluted  ears 

On  flutes  that  cease  to  speak. 

Never  any  more 

Spill  the  honied  tears 

Down  the  kissed  cheek! 

Come  out  and  close  the  door, 

Nor  listen  at  the  key.  * 

How  to  restore 

The  plucked  fruit  to  the  tree! 

Then,  then, 

Turn  back  and  part  again! 
Console  the  ruined  love! 
The  crowned  creature  falls 
With  his  illustrious  walls. 
How  fares  my  dove? 
See  who  leans  and  calls! 
Look  once  more.     And  so — 
Close  from  further  knowing. 

How,  now,  to  go 

With  this  redeemless  going! 


There,  there, 

Leave  the  golden  Care! 

Let  the  heaped  heaven — 

The  princely  prostrate  lie. 

Last — the  Look  be  riven ! 

Then  go  carefully, 

Lest  he  stir  and  sigh. 

So,  with  subtle  stride 

The  dead  are  left  with  speed. 
How  now  to  hide 
The  consummated  deed! 


TO  THE  TERRIBLE  MUSE 

You  asked,  "Are  you  afraid  of  me  at  night?" 
My  monster  with  the  eagled  head, 
My  spreading  banner  on  a  bed; 

Your  embattled  splendours  purple-ing  my  white. 

But  I  said,  "Nay,"  with  bold,  foolhardy  breath, 
"The  desperate  who  holds  you  dear, 
Full  fed  with  Fate,  is  fed  with  fear 

Too  full  to  falter  over  you,  or  death." 


A  SKELETON  ADDRESSES  SOME 

CHILDREN  OF  A  LATER  TIME 

WHO  PLAY  WITH  IT 

So,  little  wantons,  pull  me  out, 

And  rattle  these  chaste  bones  about. 

A  hundred  years  of  moons  and  suns 

Have  looked  in  vain  for  these  poor  nuns, 

These  white  and  shy  and  cloistered  things 
That  once  were  wild  as  winds  and  wings. 

Loose  me  from  that  meshed  rust 

Of  the  long,  long  mouldered  hair; 
Shake  the  dust 

From  mine  eyeholes.     Let  me  stare 
Deeply  at  the  day,  the  while 

You  gaze  agog  at  this  great  smile 
That  gapes  so  wide  for  lack  of  lip, 

And  gives  the  laugh  without  the  quip ; 
As  some  poor  clown  dismay  arrests 

That  has  forgotten  all  his  jests. 

Now,  crack  my  knee-joints  merrily. 

In  days  when  I  was  called  a  she 
They  danced  like  leaves  upon  a  tree ; 


Nor  did  they  clack  so,  deep  enough 
Sheathed  in  hyacinthine  stuff. 

On  this  bank,  embroidered  well 
With  many  a  purple  flower-bell, 

How  gaunt  the  starveling  you  incline, 
Lusty  once  with  meat  and  wine! 

Ah,  the  dullest  dead  man  knows 
Dust's  a  lean  fare  for  the  guest, 

And  the  buxom  sluggard  grows 
Lank  with  too  protracted  rest. 

Who  would  think  this  barred  cage 
Once  held  a  heart  of  lovely  rage 

And  ardent  rivering  veins  of  man, 
Through  which  the  great  red  runner  ran! 

And  who  would  say  that  this  was  one 
Who  carried  high  beneath  the  sun 

Proud  lips  whose  words  were  lutes, 
And  lions,  nightingale  and  dove; 

And  on  her  breast  two  moony  fruits 
Where  the  lover  leaned  to  love — 

Of  princely  beauty  half  afraid! 

And  now,  you  little  lads  and  maid, 
Without  a  by-your-leave,  or  thanks, 

Take  my  shanks 

To  beat  your  little  drum, 

And  with  little  mirth  alive, 
Stick  a  flower  in  the  dumb 

Singer's  mouth,  and  then  disband 


The  mysterious  fingers  five 
Of  the  woman-master's  hand. 

And,  my  little  wantons,  now 
With  many  a1  droll  buffooning  bow, 

You  set  me  up  amid  the  flowers 
And  cry  with  infant  wit, 

"A  name  for  this  lean  man  of  oursl 
A  name,  a  name  for  it 

That  here  doth  leanly  sit!" 

But  of  these  and  those 

Of  the  names  you  chose, 
With  all  your  infant  wit, 

You  did  not  name  me. 


[219] 


THE  RETURNED 

When  I  come, 

Do  not  wonder  if  I  shall  be  dumb. 

Nor  stare 

At  long  roots  knotted  in  my  hair, 

Or  the  earth  that  lies 

Round  my  intolerable  eyes; 

Nor  interrogate  me  much — 

And  on  your  oath,  I  charge  you  not  to  touch ! 

Let  me  hide 

What  hangs  along  my  side, 
In  this  purple  vesture  folded  well, 
Keep  secret  the  unspeakable. 

As  I  lie 

At  the  feast  beside  you,  hold  your  eye 
From  slipping  sidelong  when  you  pause  and  think; 
And  do  not  look  too  closely  when  I  drink. 

Do  not  tell  the  row 
Of  other  feasters  what  you  know, 

Nor  confess 
What  you  guess, 
Nor  speak  of  whence  I  came; 
And  if  you  call  my  name, 
Do  not  start,  when  I  sit 

[220] 


Without  reply,  who  have  forgotten  it. 

Pour  the  wine  and  quaff, 

Not  to  shake  so  when  I  laugh — 

This  lean  laugh.  .  .  .  Pour  again! 

Drink  and  drain, 

Lest  you  fear  and  fall 

Before  this  shape  equivocal, 

Dreadly  changed, 
And  the  look  estranged 

Of  my  hiding  eye. 

Take  care!     Not  too  near  by! 
;Lest  you  faint  with  cold 

Of  my  state  insuccourably  old — 
Lest  you  break  and  be 
Aware — past  remedy. 


[221] 


THEN,  EVEN  THEN 

Then  even  then,  you  the  King-maker, 
Reaching  your  coronal  hands 
Down  into  my  darkness, 
Wreathed  me  again ! 
And  I,  that  was  humbled  with  hell, 
Was  suddenly  heavened  with  honour, 
And  staggered  with  crowns 
Where  the  shades  are. 


[222] 


THE  GIFT 

Now  that  I  am  lame, 
Now  the  fierce  is  tame, 
Now  the  mane  is  shorn, 
And  the  banner  torn ; 
I  bring  thee,  lord, 
The  shattered  sword. 
Take  the  tattered  fool, 
Take  the  broken  tool, 
Take  the  last  offense, 
This  ruined  insolence! 


[223] 


FIERCE  SPLENDOUR 

Fierce  Splendour,  since  you  have  a  mind  to  slay 

What  you  have  loved  a  while; 

O,  let  not  this,  my  strangeness,  stop  or  stay 

Your  hand — nor  my  persisting  eye; 

And  question  not  too  close  the  deathless  smile 

Which  lifts  my  lips  that  die. 

My  lord, 

Thus  some  poor  Jew  is  slain — and  cannot  sigh 

For  looking  at  the  jewels  on  the  sword. 


[224] 


THE  GREAT   CLOWN 

They  said  I  must  go  on  without  my  laughter: 
And  hereafter, 

Look,  like  punished  age,  in  careful  wise 
From  my  chastised  eyes; 
Too  wise  for  late  complaint, 
Or  any  hidden  sobbing,  fine  and  faint. 

They  said  I  must  go  on  without  my  tears, 
Caught  culprit  of  the  years; 
And    leave    my    purple    garment,    golden- 
hemmed, 

For  the  gray  tunic  of  the  Time-condemned, 
In  penalty  for  youth's  too  lovely  wrongs. 

They  said  I  must  go  on  without  my  songs, 
And  still  the  tongue  that  cried 
With  silver  crying,  wild  and  windy  wide, 
And  break  the  lyre  in  my  hollow  side. 

They  said  I  must  go  on  without  my  heart, 
And  so,  part: 

Lean  as  lost  Lazarus,  ere  he  turned 
His  frozen  looks  on  those  large  eyes  that 
burned ; 


And  so,  go: 

Without  one  Job-cry  for  my  over-throw, 
Without  one  groan,  beneath  a  bell  disguised, 
Of  fools  un-Paradised. 

They  said  I  must  go  on  without  my  laughter; 
And  thereafter, 
Jog  with  eld  and  bear  a  leaden  load. 

But  ah,  my  laughter  met  me  in  the  road! 
But  ah,  my  giant  hailed  me  in  the  way, 
The  motley  master  in  his  pied  array! 

The  stalwart  uncontrite! 
All  undefeated  by  the  threat  of  night; 
Too  poor  in  penitence,  too  rich  in  folly 

For  priestly  melancholy; 

Too  tall  for  whips  of  loss, 

Too  careless  for  a  cross ! 

A  gallant  outlaw,  saving  life  and  hoard 
Of  some  poor  captive  of  an  evil  lord ; 
So  he,  my  roarer,  with  grimace  sublime, 
Made  rescue  of  me  from  the  train  of  Time ; 

And  like  a  flash  of  spears, 
He  saved  my  songs,  he  saved  my  ruined  tears. 
"What  god  so  weak  of  wit  and  iron  cold 
Would  make  a  fool  grow  old?" 
He  cried,  and  seized  me  in  a  shook  embrace, 
Unhooding  there  the   Great  Clown's   kingly 
face. 

[226] 


THE  CANDLE 

They  said,  "You  will  be  milder,  by  and  by." 
Yet  Time,  perverse,  but  gives  their  words  the  lie 
My  curious  candle  now,  beyond  a  doubt, 
Streams  higher  in  the  wind  that  puts  it  out. 


[227] 


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